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.