Here, atop the pinnacle,
Where howling winds
Chill the bone and soul
And blazing fireflies
Summon the last vestiges
Of light, I stand. The vast
Valley opens up before me,
Sleeping in white, tranquil;
The fig tree, fruitless, in
Patient silence await the
Warm Spring, Mother-life,
Arched o’er the frozen lake.
One must cling onto hope,
Lest he’s to perish in this Hadean hail.
Oh, you crystal daggers, servants
Of the Under-King! spare this young
Heart and its dream, the dream of
Spring! oh, how burns the ice, how
Cold the light! There, I see the rivers
Frozen, the forests ghastly pale; and
No flowers, to bloom! Time, pinion!
Countless Winters you’ve to Spring
Transformed; shall this Winter, too,
End, with me alight in joy an’ love?