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I call it, simply, nothing: this way I’ve come to know
We say we can’t be broken; this was not ever so
I see but chill, if lovely, forms, and yet I seek the day.
Though pain would play as power, still the cold won’t fade away.

I march upon the end of time; I cannot turn around
Though frosted pinions gather, casting silver on the ground
though all advice should lead away, my choice is but a part.
I guard what in another time would be a living heart.

Though time and tide befall this place, though wind should wear away
Infernal dust and all that is, eternal in its way
though time and tide advance or flee, though days yet come and go—
Still yet I stand within this place, and still the winters blow.

Consider but ceramic guards, and suffer yet to start
To win these winding, empty ways, and drive them once apart
if all that is should come again, and break this fallen town,
I falter not nor crumble, for I stand on hallowed ground.