While terror reigns and raining clouds do weep;
They press upon my soul the darkest sleep,
Of lovers dead and heartache left to stew.
It burns me now for neither ever knew,
Ne’er grasp’d the chance to make their lovers thine.
I forthright should have made them grow a spine!
What’s left of them is now fore’er in tomb;
The fault is mine that they should face their doom.
Oh, lonely stars, what ill hath heaven sent?
That tragedy should strike and breed lament
For faithful, brave companions like my friends.
I curse the name who brought them to their ends.
Lord Voldemort, thou vile, heartless knave,
I swear my life to send thee to thy grave.