Oh! would I were dead now,Or up in my bed now,To cover my head nowAnd have a good cry!
Now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
Dreary rosmaryeThat always mourns the dead.
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,And flesh and blood so cheap!
Take her up tenderly,Lift her with care;Fashioned so slenderly,Young and so fair!
It is not linen you're wearing out,But human creatures' lives.
Heaven is not gone, but we are blind with tears,Groping our way along the downward slope of Years!
We weep when we are born,Not when we die!
I had not so much of man in me,And all my mother came into my eyes,And gave me up to tears.
With sad unhelpful tears; and with dimm'd eyesLook after him, and cannot do him good.
And he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not.
What I should sayMy tears gainsay; for every word I speak,Ye see, I drink the water of mine eyes.
Behold who ever wept, and in his tearsWas happier far than others in their smiles.
He has strangledHis language in his tears.
The tears of the young who go their way, last a day;But the grief is long of the old who stay.
See, see what showers arise,Blown with the windy tempest of my heart.
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