Through the woven branches of a bare forest
The first snow falls1 down from the grey air
And falls1 and falls1. How mute the world has become!
No leaf that rustles, no bird in the branches,
Only white and grey and stillness, stillness.

The wanderer, too, who wandered through
Green and colourful months with lute and song,
Has fallen mute and is weary of joy,
Weary of wandering, weary of songs.
He shudders; from the cool grey heights
Sleeps is wafted toward him, and quietly falls1
And falls1 the snow...

Memory still speaks from distant spring
And wilted summer joys,
With pale fading images:
Cherry blossom petals falling through the blue like a veil,
A lovely luminous blue --
With delicate trembling of its wings a young 
Butterfly of brown and gold hangs upon the stalk --
From the gloaming of a humid summer forest night
Yearning, sustained birdsong...
The wanderer nods to the beloved images:
How lovely that was! And many a thing still rises
Flutteringly from that once-upon-a-time, shines and is extinguished:
A darkly sweet glance from the eyes of love --
A thunderstorm at night, lightning and storm in the reeds --
A flute song from a foreign evening window --
The strident scream of a jay in the morning wood...
The snow falls1 and falls1. The wanderer
Harkens after the bird-flight and flute
That once rang out, moving his heart:
Oh lovely world, how have you fallen mute!
Silently he walks through the soft whiteness
Toward his homeland, long-forgotten,
That now calls him with gentle compulsion,
Toward the valley, the alder-bordered brook,
The marketplace, the old house of his father,
The ivy-covered stone wall, behind which his mother,
His father and his ancestors rest.

No leaf that rustles, no bird in the branches...