O' blind the sun, and send the blackness far
as I do wither, old like summer leaves
in warm uncertain winds, the wrinkles scar
of seasons gone, as from my youth it thieves.

The night denies the golden mirror's vim
I see all better with my future's sight
that soon my sun will cloak, and rays will dim
I wonder if the stars are souls a-bright?

I eye a starry four, alike my own
and chose a space; the youngest would, above
ah! Take me there, sweet angels to my throne!
That shine I may, unlike my lifeless love.

A spectre in the night, a hopeful end
for here I lost, but there will I ascend!