On my bed of a winter night,
Deep in a sleep and deep in a dream,
What care I for the wild wind's scream,
What to me is its crooked flight?
On the sea of a summer day,
Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,
What care I for the fitful gale,
Now in earnest, now in play?
What care I for the fitful wind,
That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree?
Groaning and sighing are nothing to me,
For I am a man of steadfast mind.