She was the first always to declare Spring:
Fortune Shone bright in her as Summer approached.
Fought for years; with no effort to see any seasons
she conquered the palace of Ice, to wit:
We ran into the depths of Earth – six feet no more;
She prepared a bed of Roses even Attila refused,
Scourge of God here for my bleeding heart,
Spite of her many loves, Men loved her the same;
pale ray of good fortune on this heart, one beat less,
Met scoffing and blame with thunders of Fall – one leaf less.
When we erred, they gave her pity for Winter has come – one life less,
But me — only pain – no more or less.