The moon hangs ripe, the wind is sharp
I lie restless on my bed and sigh
Suddenly there’s the sound of the harp
Its melody ringing, crisp and sharp
Notes billowing like ribbons over the sky

The moon hangs ripe, the air is cold
I lie satiated on my bed; I'm glad
Suddenly a seahorn’s sonic boom unfolds
I stamp and I shout and I swear and I scold
Without the lilt of the harp I go mad!

When I hear the harp’s sweet blare
I forget all my suffering and shame
I hearken to the music there
Which bears me aloft up heaven’s stairs
Where my troubles are peacefully slain