Shining tired on the waves
The setting sun; 
It's beams, red and bright, 
Gently pierce the sea.
It's chariot's descending
The clear western sky; 
Night's claiming her right
To rule the world.
Her wings open wide, 
Under which we'll mourn and pray, 
Will hide our shame; 
My dear Guinevere, 
In dismal grief we'll find
Full redemption.
A flock of crows, 
Approaching noisily, 
Stubbornly croaks
Sober words to me:
'That yearning heart of yours! 
You fool! What have you done?
Bringer of death, 
Your soul's forever lost'.
Her wings open wide, 
Under which we'll mourn and pray, 
Will hide our shame; 
My dear Guinevere, 
In dismal grief we'll find
Full redemption.
Night's wings open wide, 
Under which we'll mourn and pray, 
Will hide our shame; 
My dear Guinevere, 
In dismal grief we'll find
Full redemption.