The lay of the spring in the rustle of pine-trees old;
Take up a lute, drive away the fog in the dale,
Write down the runes on a wall with knife and charcoal.
In feathery trickles the mist twines about my hair.
I face the cold, do not fear a tiresome way.
In voice of strings there flower patterns of flare,
The truth does live in the lines of an ancient tale.
Why must I fear? I am ice and silvery hoar.
And never on earth could a sparklet burn down a rock.
Like white-scaled dragons the snowy flurries roar.
My shoulders bent have not the wings of the fog.
Though I 'm not a god and my power is not in flame,
And serpents of snowy whirls sweep away my trace.
But Winter, the Queen of the dead, will not ever reign.
I sing the glory of Spring and She does answer my praise.