Winter evening on the Marches

Into colours of purple the sky melts away
And rolls in waves to the distant scene,
The while in fiery, orange, rays,
The sun, its lightship, fills up the e'en.

But the wind which bites and pervades
The willows and bushes and stream,
Has rimed the branches with silken threads,
and tiny strings of pearl are seen.

Above it glitters and glimmers, from marsh
To spruce, o'er clammy and fallow brake;
Yet the chill constricts so harsh,
Not beat the heart can make.

(Englische Nachdichtung: Derek Donaldson)