White lies over green,
And it sings.
Snow that is delicate, snow that is light,
Longs to be deep.
January kindles to snow, is green
And is white.
May the blaze of the snow through the day
And the night kindle a perfecter snow!
Delicate downfall, temperate flake,
What rage is made whole here!
It is snow: snow on the hands,
Snow on the soul.
So perfect the rage of that whiteness,
So perfect and flameless,
Snow bears itself upward, snow
Mounts and is song.
January burns in a barbarous snow.
The rage of it! And it sings.
It touches its singing — snow upon snow upon snow —
In a headlong ascending of wings.

Translated by Ben Belitt.