Sweeping wind, hold still some silent moment;
Listen to my whisper before you fade.
'Tis a wistful message of atonement,
Some soft and secret sort of serenade,
Which solitary thought hath writ and laid,
While moonlit, empty nights hath debts repaid.
O' tell my ghostly muse my fond farewell,
And tell it to her soft, and kind, and sweet.
Tell her on my heart she shall cease to dwell,
And cease to be some sorrowful conceit;
That I am free from my deservèd hell:
Henceforth for her, in me, no bell shall knell.
O' simply say that heaven holds her high,
But yet in me my love doth finally die...