I promise that in death I shall float out as lost As though I rode my breath Upon the midnight frost. Oh cold and small and still My angel host will be, As if across the sill A bird had come for me. Though hanging in the snow His trumpet made of glass, You will not hear him blow, You will not see me pass. But on the pane his claw With crystal in its tip, Precise and clear will draw The map of my white trip. |