If all this true, that at the night, when the living men are sleeping, and from a sky, a pale moonlight to stones of graveyards are slipping, If true, that under cover, black, the dead ones leave their coffins, quiet, I call the shade of my beloved: To me, my friend, come back, come back! Appear! Oh, beloved shade, such as you were at last partition, such pale and cold, as winter, late, with face deformed by last infliction. Come, like a star from distant track, like puff of wind or sound's fiction, or like the awful apparition, it's same to me: come back, come back! I call you not because I tend a hurt to men, whose fierce hatred had killed my dear gentle friend, or to cognize the Coffin, sacred, And not because the doubts break sometimes my heart -- but only here, to say that, yet, I love, my dear, that, yet, I'm yours: come back, come back!