Three Baritone Songs

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, --
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy?

 ... 

 Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:
    Yet slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:
 List to the heavy part the music bears,
    Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
     Droop herbs and flowers,
     Fall grief in showers,
     Our beauties are not ours;
      O, I could still,
 Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
     Drop, drop, drop, drop,
    Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.

O let me climb
When I lie down.
The pious souls by night
Is like a clouded star
Whose beams tho said
To shed their light
Under some dark cloud
Yet are above
And shine and move
Beyond that misty shroud.
So in my bed
That curtained grave, though
Sleep like ashes hides by lamp,
And life I will Thee abide.