I arise to thee, beautiful pilgrim
Returning to the ***** of Winter,
Droving forth the winds once full of whims,
But now bound to thy will- oh Enchanter
Of the first dancing lights- by the promised
Arrival of the new Gods of the sky.
You wear the morning light- Remised
Of the nascent azure and its red Eye -
Like a veil, in mourning of the silence.
The kings and queens of burning summer,
The din of the humans’ blissful pretense,
Will soon seek the night like moths a taper
And tributaries of parched skin will be paid
To the pest that walks, the old timekeeper
And the shaft flies and leaves things unsaid.
Away! Hot and languishing despair
For I arise to dreams of the sprites of Winter,
And the light kisses my skin like sweet Death,
Oh! Sweet, sweet ghost of coldness, here, my wreath!

There is, in our bleakest hour of despair
A singular feeling of wild ecstasy,
An unexpected joy that clears the air
To which the pained sinews can but agree.

There is, in our most joyous moments
This terrible doubt of the spotless mind
That nurtures the fear of future torments
And mocks mirth as being naive and blind.

There is, in our greatest acts of passion
The lingering ghosts of expectations
Who haunt us with the shadows of reason
And shackles our ankles with patience.

Sentient beings, or puppets of fate
When, by free will or by command,
They- with vehement threads of hate-
Decant the numbness of my hand
To be Acheron's vicariates.

Black sentinels of my torment
They haunt every abode of rest
And flaunt their hoary adornement
Over the arch of my behest;
A crumbled wall of laments.

Giant companions by my side,
They shade the embers of joys
Of when I danced with Etesians' tide
And tasted the feeling that cloys,
In the garden of the Hesperides.