To a christmas rose (a hellebore)

Daughter of the forest, relative of the lily,

I have looked for you for so long, unknown,

and it is in a foreign churchyard, bleak and wintery,

that I have found you, o beauty, for the first time.

Whose caring hand it is that has allowed you to bloom

I don't know. Nor do I know whose grave you are protecting.

If it is a boy's, he has found salvation,

if it is a girl's, her fate was lovely.

It was in a grove at night, covered with light from the snow,

where the gentle deer grazed around you,

by the chapel, next to a crystal pond,

that I looked for your homeland, your magic kingdom.

You are beautiful. You are a child of the moon, not the sun.

What for other flowers brings joy would be deadly for you.

Your chaste body, all frost and scent, is nourished by

the balsam sweet air of heavenly cold.

From the golden fullness of your breast arises

a wonderful fragrance, which barely announces itself.

It recalls the scent, touched by an angel's hand,

of the holy mother's bridal gown.

What would suit you, in memory of the holy passion,

would be five purple drops as your sole beautifying ornament,

but you are childlike in decorating yourself at Christmas time

in a white dress with a hint of light green.

The elf, at midnight,

on his way to dance in a bright clearing,

comes to a standstill before your mystical glory;

he looks at you, fascinated, from afar, and then runs off.