It's not of consequence who you are, you live: fly quickly... amidst the fields by my gentle vault: trample not the daisies where I consult, hearing the climbing vine and ivy.

I watched you stay. The singing dove did moan. Yet don't chase it from my tomb. To bid me well, save its freedom. Life is great: oh let it fly oh darling one.

It was under the mistletoe at the door, on the cusp of love you died, a maiden right-so dear-already far from thee I did love tonight.

So my lids closed out the good light. And here I stay alas for evermore -with angels beings deaf to dreams- in the remembrance of Night.