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!