From this brief day, this short transition,
This interlude of farcial joy and woe,
Back to our native, kind oblivion.

Can this be Moti, she who prates of being,
And life, and death, and fallacy, and moan?
Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast? seeing
All things about me shift, I need must change;
Things which I thought were plain are waxen strange,
Things are unfathomable which I deemed
Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave,
Sunbeams are mysteries, and Love that seemed
All wingéd joy, and transport light as air,
Ah me, but Love is deeper than the grave,
Is deeper than the grave; I seek it there.
Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die!

And he is doomed to die who loved me!
O bitter, bitter end of tenderness!
O doleful issue of my happiness!
Weep, little maid, for one that loved me!

O might I with my last of mortal breath
Bid him the cruel treachery to flee,
And hear his voice and sink to happy death,
So still might live the one that lovéd me!

Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper low,
As moon to weeping clouds, until there rise
Like pallid rainbow, wan with spectral glow,