When winter rages and icicles form,
When monstrous tempests sweep over the land
When winds blow hard in the gathering storm,
Birds freeze and fish expire, my love will stand.
When the summer sun beats down on our heads,
Burns the parched earth and sets forests in flame,
Silencing the chattering streams whose beds
Lie stony and dry, my love will remain.
But tell me, gentle maid, what thinkest thou
Of this immutability of love?
Does it inspire, inflame or amuse you?
Does it move you? Will you consent to be
The apple of my eye, my faithful dove,
My all and ever more, my here and now?