Snow peaked, treeless summit,
before me a mountain rises
cloaked in the grimmest climate,
abrupt cliffs, sheer precipices,
jutting edged bare stones,
drab dun lichened recesses,
abode for vultures and bones,
therein my lady dresses
calm and silent, always silent
among asphodels and roses,
beyond whatever relent,
trimming up her greyish tresses;
my mortal wound is not forgotten:
I fancy her as she curses
the one who turned her hopes rotten,
wandering now amid cypresses,
lingering on turning back
from the unclimbable peak´s basis
to his far-off muddy shack
in which Solitude grimaces.