Every heart is happy.
When is life as sweet, as welcome
As it is now?
When with so much love
Does a man bend to his studies?
Or tend to his work?
Start something new?
When is he less aware of his troubles?
Joy is born of pain;
Vain joy, it is the fruit
Of past fear, and makes even one
Who loathed his life,
Tremble and fear death
Thus in long-drawn torment,
Cold, quiet, pale,
The people sweat and tremble, seeing
Moving in to threaten them
Lightening, clouds, and wind.