The boughs are filled with flakes of silver snow,
And the jagged gusts of winter blow.
Through frozen hollows and barren fields,
I wait for respite, but it never yields.

Though the silent snow falls, there is no beauty,
For without you, this life is but dreary duty.
To be done through the years with nary a scrap,
Of peace, or joy, or of thy sweetness perhaps.

The youthful passions of summer night,
Have been quickly quelled by winter’s bite,
And when the blossoms of spring erupt from the earth,
No joy will I have, lest you replenish the dearth.
Of love in my heart, O lady fair,
For I wish, with thee, my days to share.

Forgive me my dear, if too forward I be,
Yet I cannot contain my boundless love for thee,
For it is like the golden sun of summer sky,
Shining like a fervent fire in thine eye,
For though it may be hidden by night or by rain,
It is forever present, through tragedy and pain.

In the spring, my love, this meadow will lie
In wait for lovers such as you and I,
Verdant, silent, anointed with misty dew,
Foliage as soft as my feelings are true.
Fireflies as numerous as the stars hung above,
Outshined only by the brilliant flame of our love.

I implore you, my dear, there is nothing to fear,
But that my heart may be broken by thy recusant reply,
I shall have naught to do but to shrivel up and die.

I, along with the buds of roses,
Await the warmth this winter opposes,
The warmth of thy heart, united with mine,
Till this age fades into the shadows of time.