Spirit of evil, heavily flying, turning,
Dropping to earth,
Caught to the light, with brown wings torn and burning,
Whence was your birth?
Was there a cause that, ceaselessly turning, flying,
Drew you from night?
All that we know is this—the aimless dying,
Killed by the light.
Evil the star that led you, spirit of evil,
Out of your dark,
Breeding desire that conquers us, man and devil—
Passion’s red spark.
XVIII
Winter Song
Oh, it’s winter, winter, when you’re here,
And summer when you’re gone.
What need of birds when hearts sing clear,
From dusk of day to dawn?
The noble wind, the silver snow,
High stars, and, best of all,
The red-rose hearth—a golden glow
When twilight curtains fall.
Who’d cry the heat of summer skies,
The bare, despairing sun,
The languid flowers, with closing eyes,
The earth’s fair wooing done?