When I died last, and dear, I die As often as from thee I go.

But think that we Are but turned aside to sleep.

Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.

Yesternight the sun went hence, And yet is here today.

Absence from whom we love is worse than death, And frustrate hope severer than despair.

Summer was gone and now Indian summer. The grass was cold and there was no mist and no dew. After he left she would go in and light the gas and close the shatt…

The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne; Al this mene I be love.