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?