Alone, in Silence, Up the West Tower I Go

Alone, in silence, up the west tower I go:
The moon is like a sickle;
That desolate tree of the phoenix, this clear, cool autumn, locked deep in the courtyard below.

O threads I can’t cut through,
In a tangle I can’t undo!
Such is my parting sorrow---
A taste that tastes so odd, so strange that my heart, ne’er ever before did know.