I sit in toxic garden bower
Dreaming of my love, her lips, her hair.
A thousand tears in my eyes do sour,
And I dream of her face, her beauty fair.

I sit in sorrow profound
Weak and aching, dying, bleeding.
Death captured in recondite sound.
Begging for my love, weeping, pleading.

No hour of peace hath come,
No fortune arrives
Only despair, decay, and darkness glum,
And I wait for death to rise.