Drift over the sunrise land,
Oh, wonderful, wonderful snow!
Oh! pure as the breast of a virgin saint,
Drift tenderly, soft and slow.
Over the slopes of the sunrise land,
And into the haunted dells
Of the forest of pine, where the roving winds
Are tuning their memory bells.
Into the forests of sighing pines,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem