A church.
Small chapel.
Mantles of snow
One on the other
As
Wave on wave.
In the frozen yard
A patch of red -
The devil so-called.
More stark
More noticed
There
Amongst the white
Of congealed snows.
And he was humming -
‘Why? Why? '
His face was wry -
‘Why do they call
Me devil? '
A small violet
Raised its head
Out of the snows
As by magic
Sprouted:
And
Said the violet:
‘Every thing has
A name.
Yours that.
Accept it'
Then
Chin hand
Philosophically thinking
The devil spoke:
‘Then I am resigned.
That be my name
Let it stick to me.'
And
From the churchyard
Jumped he.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
well, at least the devil had the decency to leave the sacred premises. Perhaps he is more skittish than we thought, not at all a formidable opponent, hardly an opponent at all. This is hardly the Miltonic devil who can assert BETTER TO REIGN IN HELL THAN SERVE IN HEAVEN.This the devil as a loser, chastened and marginalized.