Last night chirps resounded in the cold,
   Through witching hour no sleep occurred.
 I rose and slowly walked, alone.
   Moonlight window glow, but no one stirred.

I've grayed in service and search of fame.
   On hills, back home, the pines have grown old.
 That's the story I'd let my lute tell,
   If a string weren't broken & 
      there was someone to be told.