Far in the cradling sky,
Dawn opes his baby eye,
Then I awake and cry,
Woe is me!
Morn, the young hunter gay,
Chases the shadows gray,
Then I go forth and say,
Woe is me!
Noon! drunk with oil and wine,
Tho' not a grief is thine,
Yet shalt thou shake with mine!
Woe is me!
Eve kneeleth sad and calm,
Bearing the martyr's palm;
I shriek above her psalm,
Woe is me!
Night, hid in her black hair
From eyes she cannot dare,
Lies loud with fierce despair;
Then I sit silent where
She cries from her dark lair
Woe is me!