The beautiful odour of October winds gently caress me with its benevolent hands, yet so dark and gloomy in its soul It permeates my intense heart with silent delight How I do love the passion of fading away the passion of dying... For it is Death herself who sweeps the landscape, embracing a lost world in shades and vapour I will never forget the dread of November, her grievance and stillness of lonely nights The desire of heart, in minor adorned, dancing so gently as dim northern lights How I do love this pleasant seclusion, this old bittersweet feeling, the passion of solitude O my frozen Queen of December nights let me transcend into a sleep without dreams, let me wither in your cold white arms...
passion, gently, benevolent, permeates, grievance