These dewdrops are the jewels you offer,

they’re crafted though the chiseling words through time

the honey-suckle softly breathes, I see,

the creek nearby expels it’s soothing rhyme.

 

bread, my milk, sustenance can feed

your generous decree to labors sweat-

the joy of songs, of leisure blessed indeed

my time, my health, my portion I will get.

 

Still I know songs are written of these joys,

that still will seem to make this life complete;

this life can become all with its alloys,

though the state of my soul is defeat.

 

I see this perfect life lay down for me,

when I am bought with crimson currency.

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