I've lost a little friend, which I, alone, loved,
Solitary thoughts and lives are envied by some,
But when that some achieves none, few thank the sun.

That none which I possessed,
All others let progress,
From one to some,
To two from one.

But the constant pain; oh martyr that is I,
Gave comfort to my soul; surely I would never ever lie,
And provided me such winning topics; myself in all respects untried,
Regardless of what is said; to fail? I'd rather die.

But do not fret, he is sure to return, alone, to me,
Once I turn back to he from he and she,
And perhaps it is I who call him, beckon him here,
For being one, than some, to me is less queer, less fear.