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Wynter Wakeneth al my Care
[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 49r]
Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is ant nou hit nys,
Also hit ner nere, ywys;
That moni mon seith, soth hit ys—
Al goth bote godes wille:
Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,
Nou hit faleweth al by dene:
Jesu help that hit be sene
Ant shild us from helle!
For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
Winter awakens all my grief
Trans. A. Jokinen
Winter awakens all my grief,
Now these leaves grow bare.
Often I sigh and sorely mourn,
When it enters my thoughts,
Regarding this world's joy,
how it all comes to nought.
Now it is, and now it is not,
As if it had never been, indeed;
As many men say, so it is—
All goes away, except God's will;
We all shall die, though we like it ill.
All the grain, which I planted green,
Now it fallows1 altogether:
Jesus, help that this be known
And shield us all from hell!
For I know not whither I shall go,
Nor how long there I'll dwell.
Notes:
1. Turns yellow; withers.
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Manuscript image of Harley MS 2253, f. 49r.
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