There's no dew left on the daisies and clover; there's no rain left in heaven.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
Her face betokened all things dear and good, The light of somewhat yet to come was there Asleep, and waiting for the opening day, When childish thoughts, like flowers would drift away.
I don't want to die. But I want to be dead.
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.