Thy tender bosom weeps indeed
To see a sparrow die
While time shall spoil that lovely face
& never drop a sigh

Time robs us of our joys we sigh
& look behind in vain
We feel with trouble only bye
Alone in care & pain
As droops the flower to fade away
When summers legacy
Its honey prime is stole away
By many a plundering bee

A sigh from the repentant heart
In sorrows smote despair
Doth often more of truth impart
Then doth the longest prayer

The leaves they flaunted proud & high
The summers smiles to meet
Tis autumn now & low they lye
Beneath the meanest feet
Thus natures wisdom boldly dares
Impartial truths to show
That tells wealths highest proudest heirs
They too shall fall as low

What are those stars seen dropping from the sky
But rushing worlds that into judgment die
Could I but win your spirits ye elements
Then might I give a being to eternity

Northward I go. To the left is the melancholy west where the gold of day is buried.
Of its treasures I have inherited only the gnawing memories — little fires always glowing ...
Northward I go; perhaps I may find a hut with a little flickering fire.
Then I'll rest my pack and staff and spend the night in the arms of a daughter of Eve.
And over the roof of the hut there will flow a silver rivulet and the encircling trees will rustle ...

Our gallant speeches now are made
So make no more ado
The foemen crowds yon mountain head
Skys like our flags gleam blue
Bold words in freedoms care are said
Now on & prove them true

O to look on the desart life left in its prime
How it saddens the heart into sorrows profound
To see our hopes wrecked by the tempests of time
& joys all in ruins all scattered around

When the proud king rode into the enemy's city, his red beard flamed in the rising sun, like the gleaming swords of his retinue. And when the proud king saw that Death held the city in his embrace, and that all the bricks of the houses were dead, and the slightest breeze could blow the buildings into dust, he laughed. And he turned his thick-set head to view his retainers who jadedly and dully dragged after themselves an exhausted victory .

Evening is coming. My song resounds ever more clearly. I am not yet wearied of long roads. I still love the soft grass by the roadside, that consoled my heart in days of yore. I like the western sky, bathed in red blood. I love the echo of my footfalls in the hills. My chaste song laments not, nor does it utter curses, but its voice resounds lovely in the evening field .