It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
How fares it with the happy dead?
And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.
Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.