Up on the hillside a long row of larches
Shake from their grizzled Beards the vestiges of rain,
From grey-blue melting ice-slabs‘ neath their arches
The spring goes up again.
Writhing, exuding,
Up-steaming, streaming,
The earth is breathing to the sky
Wet clouds of spring.
Dim rosy fans, the trees
As they flick to and fro,
Seem driving greyish vapour
Over the snow.
The sky remodulates itself
From violet-grey to blue,
Under the upturned eaves of the blue larches
The sun looks through.
Now with the heat of the sun
The grey-blue ice-slabs quiver,
They slide in muddy trickles
Towards the river.
Up on the hillside between the long row of larches
Fume up from south pale clouds that bear the rain;
In pearl and violet arches
They break and shape again.