Bright star in the night,
bright star, my delight,
cannot you speak of the moon,
your mistress moon adorned in gloom?
Dust's son, tired earth,
whom death called at birth,
why ask of the moon,
of the moon in her gloom?
O star, gentle light,
star sweet in my sight,
what ails her above?
What above are sorrows of?
O prince, prince of ashes,
whose life shortly flashes,
our queen here is dead.
She is dead. Her light's fled.
And the baby now cries
to learn the moon dies.
So too, the stars weep
that our lives we can't keep.
Tale Told 