From THE TALK OF FLOWERS

 I do not know, whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.


I listened to the rustling 
of spring rain, 
washing the reddish buds 
of chestnut-trees, – 
and a tiny spring ran down 
into the valley from the hill – 
and I was missing 
the whiteness 
and the snow.


And in the yards, and on the slopes 
red-cheeked 
village maidens 
hung up the washings 
blown over by the wind 
and, leaning, 
stared a long while 
at the yellow tufts of sallow:

For love is like the wind, 
And love is like the water – 
it warms up with the spring, 
and freezes over – in the autumn.

But to me, I don't know why, 
whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.


I know – the wind 
will blow and blow the washings, 
and the rain 
will wash and wash the chestnut-trees, – 
but love, which melted with 
the snow – 
will not return.


Deep below the snow sleep 
words and feelings: 
for today, watching 
the dance of rain between the door – 
the rain of spring! – 
I saw another:

she walked by in the rain, 
and beautiful she was, 
and smiled:

For love is like the wind, 
and love is like the water – 
it warms up with the spring 
and freezes over – in the autumn, 
though to me, I don't know why, 
whether the sun 
accomplished it, 
the rain or wind – 
but I was missing so 
the whiteness and the snow.


Translated by Clark Mills

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