In the black peat-water of the moss,
Brighter gleams the star than in the sky
Look not on it, lover, at a loss
How to die!

It is but a cold and mocking star
That would gleam as bright above you, dead.
Lift your eyes, sad lover, where, afar
Overhead

Living stars range through the windy skies,
Stars that have looked down on all men's woe—
Stars that call you, stars that bid you rise,