Tá an samhradh cheana féin ag éag
Ar gach géag; ní éagann Tusa.
Is geal leat bheith ag síorathrú
Is ag claochlú choíche
Níor chuala riamh tusa bheith id loch
Och! Gan mise i m’iasc Ionat ag faire Ort
Ní rabhais riamh id ghaineamhlach, a chroí istigh
Gan mise im ghráinnín Tríot ag corraí
Faoi bhun an reophointe fiú
Taoi ag cuisliú
The slow death of summer now
On every bough; You do not die.
To change is Your delight, to repose
To metamorphose.
I never heard that You were a lake
And did not make a fish of me, watching You
Or again, a desert
Was I not a grain stirring in You?
Below zero by many degrees
Your pulse does not freeze