The Frost of Death was on the Pane

Our passive Flower we held to Sea —

To Mountain — To the Sun —

Yet even on his Scarlet shelf

To crawl the Frost begun —

We pried him back

Ourselves we wedged

Himself and her between,

Yet easy as the narrow Snake

He forked his way along

Till all her helpless beauty bent

And then our wrath begun —

We hunted him to his Ravine

We chased him to his Den —

We hated Death and hated Life

And nowhere was to go —

Than Sea and continent there is

A larger — it is Woe —