Winter wakeneth all my care, 
Now these leaves waxeth bare;
Oft I sigh and mourne sare
When it cometh in my thought, 
Of this world's joy, how it goeth all to nought.

Now it is, and now it nys, 
All so it ne'er were, I-wis;
That many man saith, sooth it is:
All goeth bote Godes will:
All we shall die, tho' us like ill.

All that green me groweth green, 
Now it fadeth albydene, 
Jesu, help that it be seen, 
And shield us from hell!
For I know not whither I shall, 
Nor how long here dwell.