Innanzi, Innanzi!

On, on! through dusky shadows up the hill Stretches the shining level of the snow, Which yields and creaks each laboured step I go, My breath preceding in a vapour chill.

Now silent all. There where the clouds stand still The moon leaps forth into the blank, to throw An awful shadow, a gaunt pine below, Of branches crossed and bent in manner ill.

They seem like the uneasy thought of death. O Winter vast, embrace me and quick stay In icy hold my heart's tempestuous waves! For yet that thought, shipwrecked, again draws breath, And cries to heaven: O Night, O Winter, say, What are the dead doing down there in their graves?