The tomb of the water-nymphs

I was walking along in the frost-covered woods;

in front of my mouth

my hair blossomed in tiny icicles,

and my sandals were heavy

with muddy caked snow.

He asked: "What are you looking for?"

"I'm following the tracks of the satyr -

his little cloven hoofprints alternate

like holes in a white cloak."

He said: "The satyrs are dead.

"The satyrs are dead, and the nymphs too.

In thirty years there has not been such a terrible winter.

That's the trail of a he-goat.

But let's pause here, where their tomb is."

With his hoe he broke the ice

of the spring where the water-nymphs used to laugh.

There he was, picking up large cold slabs of ice,

lifting them toward the pale sky,

and peering through them.