Ah! woe is me! poor Silver-wing!
That I must chaunt thy lady’s dirge,
And death to this fair haunt of spring,
Of melody, and streams of flowery verge, —
Poor Silver-wing! Ah! woe is me!
That I must see
These blossoms snow upon thy lady’s pall!
Go, pretty page, and in her ear
Whisper that the hour is near!
Softly tell her not to fear
Such calm favonian burial!
Go, pretty page, and soothly tell, —
The blossoms hang by a melting spell,
And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice
Upon her closed eyes,
That now in vain are weeping their last tears,
At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green, —
Rich dowry from the spirit of the spheres, —
Alas! poor queen!