Her tragedies she always keeps alive, She wears a wornout sorrow as the oak, Retains marcescent leaves; the winds revive The monody by sobbing through its cloak Through the silently falling snow. It's better to imitate the naked beech: It gladly surrenders all to winter's cold, It's only its foot that ever tries to reach For all its fallen leaves that slowly mold Under the white covering of the snow. |