Shall I then honor and obey?
I who only heed the Autumn whispers
That my spirit might flutter and utter
Poetry who is the wife and master
Of my piercing eyes of December

Now I am filled, with happiness and quiet
I’ll hold you even dear, you passing friends
I have found my pilgrimage shelter
The gold-hammered love of words
It’s enough for me, to write a while

In encrimsoned freshening dew
For Autumn soft-wind-twisted leaves
And emotions in the freight of my heart
That abides by wild beasts, forest brothers
I take all these into my good report for keeps

And do not ask the Lord for anything
I am self-sufficient in my lonely work
And I kiss the cruelty of fate at every turn
No little thing to barter one’s life with
A little art, forsaken love of something

That brings no direct external profit
Only a sense of what the seasons serve
My Amageddon’s vast terrific hour.