Lyricism of winter, rustle of crepe,

now when the hasty departure nears;

oracular voices of plaintive songs

that in the evening pray for a farewell.

Vision of the burial of my illusions

in the very tomb of the mortal wound.

Veronican charity from unknown regions,

where at the price of ether life is lost.

Near dawn I will depart in tears;

and while my years go on curving,

my swift course will curve scythes.

And under the cold holy oils of a dying moon,

with the timbre of steel in the indolent earth,

dogs, howling, will dig a good-bye.