Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire

And For To See, And Eek For To Be Seie.

Certain, When I Was Born, So Long Ago, Death Drew The Tap Of Life And Let It Flow; And Ever Since The Tap Has Done Its Task, And Now There's Little But An Empty Cask.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

One Eare It Heard, At The Other Out It Went.

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.