My pillow was of sorrow made

My pillow was of sorrow made
My sleep were tears, free flowing;
Go easy, my heart—not so loud:
Deep penitence I’m showing.

The moon comes by the window in,
Gown’d in her deathly pallor,
And in the heart a song died down
As of a bird, sad caller.

Dear moon, light up the stars on high;
Let dew descend on flowers;
Awake from sleep the nightingale,
But men—let sleep their hours!

You carry off the gorgeous love—
You know the calamity;
I am now but a wretched man—
Ah, pity, pity, pity!