The Sun descends below the far horizon,
To draw shadow of despair over the world.
Like frigid clutches of mortality,
The chillness of evening flows around.
Wanders for shelter from the frosty night,
The poor old chap with his days alms!
Shivering in the icy wind, his face red and green;
Heart burning with pain, sorrow and hatred
He looks against the boreal forest