Classic Poem

Winter wakeneth all my care,
now these leaves waxeth bare;
ofte I sike and mourne sare
when hit cometh in my thought
of this worldes joy, how hit goth all to nought.

Now hit is and now hit nis,
also hit ne'er nere, ywis.
That mony mon saith, soth hit is:
all goth but Godes wille;
all we shule deye though us like ille.

All that grain men graveth green,
now hit falloweth all by-dene;
Jesu, help that hit be seen
and shield us from helle,
for I not whider I shall ne how longe here dwelle.