Ye little, ye wee little birds,
Ye song-dreamers in sleeping;
Does anyone of you there know
That I die here from weeping?

Dear moon, stop moving in the sky
Till I some solace gather;
My love’s fire’s extinct as art thou—
We both fit well together.

The last flame flickers to die out,
All that’s left are words hollow;
Yet I would blow all to new life,
Though nought but grief should follow.