O ends of autumn, winters, springtimes drenched with mud,
Seasons that lull one to sleep! I love you, I praise you
For enfolding my heart and mind like this
In a misty shroud and a filmy tomb.
On that vast plain where the chilly south wind plays,
Where in the long, dark nights the weathervane cock grows hoarse,
My soul spreads wide its raven wings
More easily than in the warm springtime.
Nothing is sweeter to a gloomy heart
On which the hoarfrost has for a long time been falling,
Than the permanent aspect of your pale shadows,
O wan seasons, queens of our climate
— Unless it be to deaden suffering, side by side
In a casual bed, on a moonless night.