| Never once her lip of ruby Did we pree; and she is gone |
|
|
| The Universe from end to end, One moment's care unworth it is |
|
|
| Why is it my cypress unto the meads, Now Spring is here, inclineth not? |
|
|
| If that blessed bird of heaven Through my door come back again |
|
|
| Come is the festal season, With friends and roses late |
|
|
| So but of fortune backed I be, Hand on the Loved One's skirt I'll lay |
|
|
| When the thought of thy face overpasseth The rosegarden red of the eye |
|
|
| Ill we speak not nor inclining Practise to despite, not we |
|
|
| From hand my heart goeth: help! help! Ye pious! By all that's Divine! |
|
|
| If thou with kindness calls us, Pure grace it on thy part is |
|
|