The firmament's deepest azure, interrupted except by hope étoile.
Shows no sign of repentance, hymn soft of spirit's death.
Hours pass, benumbed and chilly, while glimpses fade into oblivion.
Concord from impurities bows, shrouding veil so softly predicted.
I am a wonderful help to women,
The hope of something to come.
I harm no citizen except my slayer.
Rooted I stand on a high bed. I am shaggy below.
Sometimes the beautiful peasant’s daughter, an eager-armed,
Proud woman grabs my body,
Rushes my red skin, holds me hard,
Claims my head. The curly-haired
Woman who catches me fast will feel
Our meeting. Her eye will be wet.