For works with similar titles, see Lament.

Lament
Now let all lovely things embarkUpon the sea of mistWith her whose luscious mouth the dark,Grim troubadour has kissed.
The silver clock that ticked awayHer days, and never knewIts beats were sword thrusts to the clayThat too much beauty slew.
The pillow favored with her tearsAnd hallowed by her head;I shall not even keep my fears,Now their concern is dead.
But where shall I bury sun and rain,How mortalise the stars,How still the half-heard cries of painThat seared her soul with scars?
In what sea depths shall all the seedsOf every flower die?Where shall I scatter the broken reeds,And how erase the sky?
And where shall I find a hole so deepNo troubled ghost may rise?There will I put my heart to sleepWanting her face and eyes.
