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.