While these eyes can pour out fountains of my tears,
mourning our shared peace, gone now, so long gone;
while my slow sobs and sighs can still bemoan
this loss (and in a voice that someone hears);
while my hands can still caress the lute, with clear
praises for the grace that you have shown;
and while my spirit's thoughts can bend alone
on you, on nothing that's outside your sphere-
I'll never want to reach the point of death!
But when my eyes grow dry and my quick breath
forsakes my voice and my hand is powerless,
and my poor spirit, in its mortal flight,
beats with no more signs of love-then I will press
death to come cover my clearest day with night.