When weak and weary sets the sun
on my sad, sleeping soul,
and blood-red moon will not arise
to comfort and console.
When willows weep and dungeons deep
depress my dreaming mind,
and nightingale, poor prince of pain,
sweet song he cannot find.
When I am groaning, girt with grief,
and star from ancient time
breaks through, with beam, to light my cell,
but cannot make life rhyme.
When lonely, like a shipwrecked tar
upon a sea-swept shore,
where dreary days turn into years,
and I can take no more:
She comes to me, at darkest hour
when all my hope lies dead,
revives me with her kiss of life,
and dries the tears I\'ve shed .