human
Lo, I sang cheerily In my bright days,-- But now all wearily Chaunt I my lays,-- Sorrowing tearfully, Saddest of men, Can I sing cheerfully As I could then?
gpt
O Thou that art Maker of heaven and earth, Who steerest the stars, and hast given them birth, For ever thou reignest upon Thy high throne, And turnest all swiftly the heavenly zone,
human
What is a man the better, A man of worldly mould, Though he be gainful getter Of richest gems and gold, With every kind well fillèd Of goods in ripe array, And though for him be tillèd A thousand fields a day?
gpt
I have wings like a bird, and more swiftly can fly Far over this earth to the roof of the sky, And now must I feather thy fancies, O mind, To leave the mid earth and its earthlings behind,
human
Thus quoth Alfred--'If thou growest old And hast no pleasure, spite of weal and gold, And goest weak,--then thank thy Lord for this, That He hath sent thee hitherto much bliss, For life and light and pleasures past away; And say thou, Come and welcome, come what may.'