When sparrows build and the leaves break forth My old sorrow wakes and cries.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven / That God has hidden your face?
It is a comely fashion to be glad; Joy is the grace we say to God.
Youth! youth! how buoyant are thy hopes! they turn, like marigolds, toward the sunny side.
we wish for more in life rather than more of it.
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.