Yet the fruitage still lingers—a faint purple streak,
And the ripe corn embroiders the breastland with gold;
Though my heart may be quailing at the storm-clouds above,
Like the harvest, it answers the sunshine of love.
"When the mountains are turned into caverns by snow,
And the heavens are black with the fury of cold,
When the spectre of Rakhabat stalks to and fro,
And the gaunt wolf is howling alone on the wold;
With the ice-crags around us, and the avalanche above,
My love shall not shiver in the breast of his love."