^{1 Ref} My wo `is' to me, for I have been As gatherings of summer-fruit, As gleanings of harvest, There is no cluster to eat, The first-ripe fruit desired hath my soul.

^{2 Ref} Perished hath the kind out of the land, And upright among men -- there are none, All of them for blood lie in wait, Each his brother they hunt `with' a net.