My thoughts of love and all the light that’s shown.

Which is no more, but songs that sing for dusk.

And dusk now gives to black of night. Far blown,

the wind still paints my love as but a husk.

Since many years, and time now can guide me,

Was that love not but sculpture gone to rust?

I played the jury but had no folly;

I killed, and cried for those who stole my trust.