O! Barren land, hold me in winter,
stripped of all passions. Let me,
swollen with the vaults of summer
recede, vast and unobliging.
From first to last these lovers came
vagrant from the woodlands, wild
in their verdance to be cast as birds
before a dearth of fruit, before
these shallow plains, these — bald
as atonement, pale as the shadows
of age. O! Barren land, let further
no rivulet run that has not suffered
the pall of ice, thick and unrelenting.
Let no rivulet run that does not
torment a thirst tourmaline.