Louise Labe (1524 - 1566 / France)
While Yet These Tears
While yet these tears have power to flow
For hours for ever past away;
While yet these swelling sighs allow
My faltering voice to breathe a lay;
While yet my hand can touch the chords,
My tender lute, to wake thy tone;
While yet my mind no thought affords,
But one remembered dream alone,
I ask not death, whate'er my state:
But when my eyes can weep no more,
My voice is lost, my hand untrue.
And when my spirit's fire is o'er,
Nor can express the love it knew,
Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!
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