Mourning Madrigals

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying  ...  now you are not as you were
When you were changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me hear you, then,
 ... 

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling cross the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

  Thus I; faltering forward,
  Leaves 'round me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
  And the woman calling.

Something tapped on the pane of my room
  When there was never a trace
Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom
  My weary Beloved's face.

 ... 

I rose and neared the window-glass,
 ... 
Only a pallid moth, alas,
  Tapped at the pane for me.

A woman was playing,
A man looking on;
And the mould of her face,
And her neck and her hair,
Which the rays fell upon
Of the two candles there,
Sent him mentally straying
 ... 
Where pain had no trace.

A cowled apparition
Came pushing between;
And her notes seemed to sigh;
And the lights to burn pale,
As a spell numbed the scene.
But the maid saw no bale,
And the man no monition
And Time laughed awry,
And the Phantom hid nigh.

In paradisum deducant te angeli,
in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres,
 ... .
Chorus angelorum te suscipiat,
et com Lazaro quondam paupere aeternam habeas requiem.