Nor is his fond attachment less:

“Alas!” he whispers, “can it be,

Spite of my ceaseless tenderness,

That I am doomed to death by thee?”

Azy Eddin Elmogadessi (L. S. Costello’s translation).

A pine-tree stands all lonely

On a northern hill-top bare,

And, wrapped in its snowy mantle,

It slumbers peacefully there.