Oh, darling love, when did we stop seeking our rainbow's end? When did our paths diverge? When, love, when? So, Diana hunts in vain the hart, the heart is lost. The moon dims, night fast falls and the strains of Morpheus' harp fade. Muddy Styx take me swiftly from this living land; I shall eat no pomegranite's seed nor seek any return to the harsh light of day. Fare thee well, my love, fare well. Thus doth my tomb enshroud me and no more will I see thee, ruby lipped and golden haired; for all that I love is gone, one way or another the river of the Moon has swept by us and I cannot see the distant bank. I want only that sleep from which even dreams are barred. It is mine.
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