As if warmly nestled in rest and ease,
Lies the village all covered with snow.
The rivulet sleeps among alder-trees,
Under ice the ocean’s glow.

Willows stand there, all white their hair,
Sleepy heads mirrored on ice-crusted deep.
All is quiet and cold under austere glare
Like death, that endless sleep.

Far, as far as you can see with bare eyes,
There’s no life, not a single sound.
Only one blue column of smoke does rise,
Gently floating blue-heaven-bound.

I yearn to sleep, yearn to sleep like the tree:
Without sorrow, without delight.
But the column of smoke ... It beckons me
Back home, as in a dream walk at night.