For half a year I have not seen your face,
Nor felt your hand lie warm against my brow.
You went in spring to tend to vine and bough,
And left my realm a cold and loveless place.

But now, at last, I hear your footsteps grace
These halls – the doors are opened wide – and now
You come, in sweet fulfillment of your vow,
And all my summer wretchedness erase.

What matters it if elsewhere cold winds blow,
The trees put off their leaves, and cease to grow,
And nights are longer than they ought to be?

Such things cannot concern us here below,
Where all is well, now you have come to me.
Then hold me close, my dear Persephone.