The human heart is frail:
a breeze its strength may take.
But though the dogs of hell
with storms the worlds shall shake,
my friend, beside you I
will stand, a wall will make;
then see, though hell-hounds cry,
I swear you shall not break.
You are most lovely of lovable things,
rising in splendor, aurora-arrayed,
roseate, luminant, aureate-splayed,
lightening worlds. The morrow-red sings
songs that will chase away winter-formed frost,
brightening ice that, translucent, transforms
light into iris in colorful storms,
hope iridescent. I would be lost,
broken, should brightness not rise in the west,
joy iridesce on the surface below,
breaking the bondage and service of snow:
you I behold, and by you am blessed.