Of the peak at the mountain stops,
My heart so wild it grows cold awry,
These words I knew but never so few,
The gambling sop mine ehre this knew,
Who, of who, could never this low is due
For hunger of tears my thirst is through,
These hearts I once so, so knelt abide,
Can never watch my dearest climb so deep,
Into the chasm from which the heathen falls,
Mine art so few can never come to fall.
Let night come, my dearest Gretel, let come
Tears of holy night my death is surely missed.
This man; this man I ought I am, is sorely here,
Sister of mine, for long I sought in slumber keep,
Kneels before the lonely moon, this bitter man I am,
Who, of who, could never my art disdain,

The hour mine hour is little hour to sign,
Accost this angle weep, whose poison saps
Our darling parents from world to meagre weep.
Nor belladonna how so far I am singing to sleep,
These whispers I conjure here in mind so deep,
For Morning and Noon, who could wake me here?
‘Las my last is but fast to scorn in durst to keep,
‘Neath my brow are golden tears whereon reserved
For all cheeks swollen are final days preserved,
Ere when last my hour last shall be thine so first,
Did pull you from chasm wherein y’immersed,
And here now, here now this Witch thy id supreme
Can never with eyes so fair bewitch her scream.
Now, let us go; for tears alone shall fires go,
Though no family await though family here is lo.

Category:
Family, Life, Poetry, Works
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