Sun came up, bigger than all my sorrow; Lark in air so high, and his song clean through me, Now comes night, hushing the lark in's furrow, And the rain falls fine. What have I done with what was dearest to me? Thatch and wick, fagot, and tea on trivet,-- These and more it was; it was all my cheer. Now comes night, smelling of box and privet, And the rain falls fine. Have I left it out in the rain? - It is not here.