You waited for winter’s approach
just as for pain-relieving balms,
and winds in the fields, getting yellow,
from morn started singing the psalms.
You waited for winter’s approach,
you waited it so at the weekend –
a fairy-tale of the snow lace –
and thought, which was quite out of place:
of birds, who were flying to Southlands,
of birds, who were turning the eyelids –
at dear birthplace for to gaze.