Leaves are whirled beyond recalling,
The withered leaves are dead also,
Snow and shadows fall around.
It is as though dread angels knocked
The rusty knockers of the doors fast locked,
Angels slaying us with ailings slow.
And on the verge sad clouds are trailing ...
All the houses are closed like sombre tombs,
Slow snow is filling all the gathered glooms.
A. Ferdinand Herold (1865-1957) translated by Jethro Bithell