The collier's wife had four tall sons Brought from the pit's mouth dead, And crushed from foot to head

Autumn grows old: he, like some simple one, In Summer's castaway is strangely clad

From my own kind I only learn How foolish comfort is

Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death.