Wild wicked winter
Your harsh face I hate.
The North wind blows in
Trembling, tormented, tough.
Without growth or goodness,
Loveliness or love,
Till the white feast of Brigid
And the resurrection of joy.
Then comes the South wind,
Promise of heat for my limbs
Life leaping in me,
Awakening of the blood.
Winter, you wastrel,
Old age is your season.
Welcome and a thousand more to you.
O Spring of my youth.
Translated from the Irish by
Ulick O'Connor