I dare not pray lest I forget his face
(O black north wind blowing cold beneath the sky!)
His face and his eyes shine between me and the sun:
If I may not be with him I would rather die.
They tell me I am cursed and I will lose my soul,
(O red wind shrieking o're the thorn-grown dun!)
But he is my love and I go to him tonight,
Who rides when the thorn glistens white beneath the moon.
He will call my name and lift me to his breast,
(Blow soft O wind 'neath the stars of the south)
I care not for heaven and I fear not hell
If I have but the kisses of his proud red mouth.
- Moireen Fox -