Prithee, O lily that mine heart holdeth near,
Catch me up, thy faithful bard and loyal servant,
And carry with thee thy siblings
That singeth of the earth and of the mere.
'Twas but with a blink that the sickleman cometh
Cruelly with thy tomb,
Wielding instruments wrought with selfishness,
To harvest thy fragile petals
And to make useless thy fruitful womb.
But lo! thy king, ardent nurturer of thy dreams,
Hath bequeathed unto thee, abodes far more fayre than these
For thy splendid light to reflect upon.
Tarry thee no longer, O innocent one,
And catch me up, thy faithful bard and loyal servant;
For thou art now restored to thy celestial self;
Thine eyes and thy soul shall be healed of thy woes,
And though thy graces hath been exiled from mortal lands,
Thy purity and fragrant memory, like a seed, doth remain
For each generation, out of reverence for the next, to sow.