Shut the window — don't let anyone

scratch at our songs,

and if you blow on the fire, I beg you, softly —

quiet our vine-boughs.

The sky is flinging down snow, and the storm

has battered the corners of the hut,

and our lamp is hoarse: its soul is going out,

its rays are guttering low.

The roof is dripping, and from the bite of the cold

the little window is trembling;

press my face against your breast, upon the roses,

upon some perfume that lingers still.

And spin upon the spindle my red tears

and the clouds of my thoughts,

and shade me with these fair braids,

O stars of my poems.