Fast this life of mine is dying,
Blind already and calm as death,
Snowflakes on my bosom lying
Scarcely heaving with my breath.

Love comes by and having known me
In a dream of fabled lands,
Gently stoops, and lays upon me
Mystic chrism of Holy hands.

He draws his smile across my folded
Eyelids as the swallow dips;
Breathes as finely as the cold does
Through the locking of my lips.

So when I look upward, being
Warmed and breathed on from above,
What sight can I have for seeing
Evermore but thy love?