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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.