The shambling shapes are pressing near
and through their moans I seem to hear
a voice that is to me so dear.
Thus swells in me a deeper fear.
My love, my darling, whom I've wed,
the one with whom I've shared my bed
and on whose lap I've laid my head,
he calls to me from out the dead.
My lover calls, my heart's not mine.
So long unheard, for him I pine.
Untasted bread, undrunken wine—
the meal is spread. With him I'd dine.
But woe, there is between us two
a wall of corpses, old and new.
How can this death I now get through.
My Lord, how can I get to you?
Tale Told 