Thy tears like starlight fall,
Why do thee weep, in this fair hall,
And why thy lips so cherry red
Whisper so; “For he is dead.”
Your hands, so cold, so pale and lithe
Do clutch his elven hunting knife,
And all the memories of a king
Become at once, and minstrels sing.
Undying love or immortal lands
Once lay the choice within thy hands,
And love is true, and true thy life,
Lay thee rest, O mortal wife.