Strings of cold pearls fall from her iced cascades;
Flowers in her frozen cisterns weirdly blossom;
Flowers in her chilly grottoes flame like gold.
“I have this night guessed the stars’ Runic riddle: ...
There, on the verdant banks of Life,—alas!
Some one hath rent in twain the shroud sepulchral....
Under that shroud sepulchral Sleep lies dead.
“Why should I yearn impatient for the morning,
Since it is writ that I expire at dawn?
Oh,—for my heart distraught still loves Life madly,—