When we two went along

the ways of life together,

and hand in hand together gazed

upon the elm trees crowding

the dike's rising ridge

close by our cottage,

thoughts of love arose as frequently

as leaves in spring

upon thick intertwining branches,

and leaning on you

my soul found rest.

But there is a grievous doom

none may escape;

across the moorland,

where a single candle glows from afar,

your bier is borne,

amid white funeral banners.

One who rose at break of dawn,

as morning fowl fly,

must now be hidden

like fading day by sunset hills.

A little son is your memorial,

he weeps and begs

and seeks comfort from me.

But I can give him nothing,

no toy can cheer him,

I can but clasp him to me

and fondle him ungently

as a man will do.

How desolate our room

where once our pillows

lay so close together;

from dawn to darkness

the day is full of sorrow,

from dusk to day-break

I sob and sigh unsleeping,

and know not where

to turn to in my misery.

I'll love you ever

though I may never see you.

I know you sleep on high Hakahi,

although it’s known as cock-crow hill,

for men brought me the news.

I climb the steep and stony heights

with painful effort—

such useless toil,

for the living you I loved

I may not see,

not even for a moment dimly

may my eyes rest on you.

It is the same moon

illuminates this autumn night

that shone a year ago,

but that year gone by divides

us by a year's expanse.

A week of mourning past,

I go back home,

And peering round our room

from outside the alcove,

my eyes rest upon your pillow,

and linger there,

upon your pillow.