Where weeping willows brush the snow
Light-falling from the powdered sky
As Mother Hulda makes her bed -
Wisp-feathered love soft-falls from high
The swirling flakes borne loft in eddies
Brush against a cold-stung cheek
So gentle are the sharp caresses
Piercing for a touch so meek
How frigid is the soft-sweet touch
That laces twixt the lashes lowered
Causing shocks and short-lived tingles
Numbing pain that is a pleasure
Moistened corners gather droplets,
Rivulets that shun the glare
And bursts that punctuate the plane
Which dazzle off one’s troubled cares
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem