Why do you rampage, Beldam-Snowstorm,
Mother of the rough blue?
Among the men, by somebody else’s warm,
Whom do you ensue?
Winds hurl your painful long-drawn-out howl –
Whine of snow whirlpool,
Full of your grey inescapable woe,
Dead Yule.
At the gates you moan and groan,
Call to go somewhere…
Roam ‘mong garths as a shaggy crone,
A snowstorm-mourner’s swear.
You’ll get furious suddenly as blizzard haze –
Turbidly fair,
You’ll break away to the field and drag
Your matted hair.
On the rough road you nearly catch me –
You pursued approaching…
You bang ‘gainst the walls, entreat “Let in!
And let me fondle you!
I’ll whirl on the snow in my round dance
To your top bend!
I’ll close your eyes and put you to bed
Of wan contentment”.
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