Her voice is the howl of the cold winter wind
The ice of her skin makes any man cringe
The dark of her hair blots out the sun
Persephone is come; winter has begun.
Down from above, to sit by her King
To her gown the shadows cling
Daughter of life, to death made wife
Leave behind the stillness of a dark winter night.
When she walks the Earth, the green things grow,
Men rejoice, the river Styx runs slow,
And who would think that her evil groom
Would, in his heart, for her make room?
Who could know the loneliness he feels?
Who knows that at her sight, he instantly heals?
Is it possible for death to feel love?
To mourn for his wife, so happy above?
In her heart does she dread the return to his side?
For she was unwillingly made his bride
Now his wait is all but done,
Winter has begun; Persephone is come.