The rim of the moon
Is over the corn.
The beetle's drone
Is above the thorn.
Grey days come soon
And I am alone;
Can you hear my moan
Where you rest, Aroon?

When the wild tree bore
The deep blue cherry,
In night's deep hall
Our love kissed merry.
​But you come no more
Where its woodlands call,
And the grey days fall
On my grief, Astore!