The Sun shineth, but I see no light
Clear is the sky, yet covered in grey
Why leavest thou hence, my love?
The bird-choir seemeth but broken clamor
The song of the dove, the smash of the hammer:
Its beauty hath left, yet the balefulness stays
Whither hast thou gone, my gold?
All drink is dust, all meat is mold
All feasts but a fattening, all fire is cold
By the waters I stand, and wait for thee
When comest thou back, my queen?