Now that the sunlight dies in my eyes, And the moonlight grows in my hair, I who was never very wise, Never was very fair, Virgin and martyr all my life, What has life left to give Me--who was never mother nor wife, Never got leave to live?
Nothing of life could I clasp or claim, Nothing could steal or save.
So when you come to carve my name, Give me life in my grave.
To keep me warm when I sleep alone A lie is little to give;
Call me "Magdalen" on my stone, Though I died and did not live.
