Oh the light through cloud doth wither,
Upon these tears this shadow clings.
Yet moon in shine with silver slither,
Your hope my sword, your love my wings.
And for my heart, mourn not the morrow,
Of season past, these days in yearn.
While blaze this love, I know not sorrow,
Your kiss, your touch, your hold in turn.
Now sweet this crush, two lips in calling,