by Miguel de Unamuno （Translated by Robert Bly）

    The snowfall is so silent，

    so slow，

    bit by bit， with delicacy¹

    it settles down on the earth

    and covers over the fields.

    The silent snow comes down

    white and weightless；

    snowfall makes no noise，

    falls as forgetting falls，

    flake² after flake.

    It covers the fields gently

    while frost attacks them

    with its sudden flashes of white；

    covers everything with its pure

    and silent covering；

    not one thing on the ground

    anywhere escapes it.

    And wherever it falls it stays，

    content and gay，

    for snow does not slip off

    as rain does，

    but it stays and sinks in.

    The flakes³ are skyflowers，

    pale lilies from the clouds，

    that wither⁴ on earth.

    They come down blossoming

    but then so quickly

    they are gone；

    they bloom only on the peak，

    above the mountains，

    and make the earth feel heavier

    when they die inside.

    Snow， delicate snow，

    that falls with such lightness

    on the head，

    on the feelings，

    come and cover over the sadness

    that lies always in my reason.

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