Say from what mine took Love the yellow gold
To form those tresses? from what thorn-bush tore
Those roses sleek? and from what summit bore
That stainless snow which seems no longer cold?
MORNING SONG
_Nu rinder Solen op_
From Eastern quarters now
The sun’s up-wandering,
His rays on the rock’s brow
And hill’s side squandering.
Be glad, my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure,
Fly from the house of dust,
Up with thy thanks, and trust
To heaven’s azure!
O, countless as the grains
Of sand so tiny,
Measureless as the main’s
Deep waters briny,
God’s mercy is, which He upon me showereth.
Each morning in my shell,
A grace immeasurable
To me down-poureth.
Thou best dost understand,
Lord God! my needing;
And placed is in Thy hand
My fortune’s speeding,
And Thou foresee’st what is for me most fitting.
Be still, then, O my soul!
To manage in the whole
Thy God permitting.
May fruit the land array,
And corn for eating!
May truth e’er make its way,
With justice meeting!
Give thou to me my share with every other,
’Till down my staff I lay,
And from this world away
Wend to another!