Alas! That I shall now die, Not for deed or belief; all I've been is glory, Fear shall not embrace me.
Behold! That I'm not for this, Nor my mouth says for grief; Kingdom for heartfelt love, Passed are all that was formal
Now is the winter of my discontent, Made glorious by this sun of north; All the clouds that lowered upon me, Are fallen and deep snow buried.
Now is the winter of my discontent, Made glorious by this sun of north; Of forests that scent of pine refines, At heavens caress the white that alights.