I cast my soul upon the moors.
So much is wrong that brooks no cures;
And so to darkness, I take flight,
And wait the coming of the night.

If I knew anything at all,
I’d take it: whether large or small.
But I see only empty white –
And wait the coming of the night.

So many looked-for dreams have sailed,
And where I should have won, I’ve failed;
I feel the cold, the sting, the bite,
And wait the coming of the night.

For many who I’ve loved are lost,
And much I’ve done bears mortal cost —
As weary, I give up the fight,
And wait the coming of the night