Quietus

Mourn, the light of a misty morn,

As the shadows fled,

And the dark was torn,

And twixt this world and the seat of dreams,

I gently rent the reverie,

And stirred to an empty hearth.

As bounteous dew pattered the panes,

I measured my course by loss and gains,

And the former now I must endure,

For the grace I lost, a lady pure,

And I rue this pain of the heart.

She sings now arias meant to illume,

Yet naught may pierce this darkened room,

With indolence now I break each morrow,

And petulance serves to feed my sorrow,

And I yearn for my refrain.

Though this countenance may even now be dead,

For nary have I relinquished my bed,

As the clock is kept by things unseen,

And monsters mock me with things unclean,

And lost is my will to contest,

And gone are those things that were best,

And now is my chance to rest.