Suits not the bridal hour;
A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing
She gives thee at thy going.
Thy father brings a clod of earth, a somber
Pillow for thy last slumber.
And so a single casket, scant of measure,
Locks thee and all thy treasure.
Lament VIII
Thou hast made all the house an empty thing,
Dear Ursula, by this thy vanishing.