The sound of the horn is wailing near the woods

The sound of the horn is wailing near the woods

with a sort of orphan-like grief

which dies away at the foot of the hill

where the north wind desperately roams.

The soul of the wolf is weeping in that voice

which rises with the sun that sinks

with an agony that seems somehow soothing

and gives simultaneous delight and distress.

To enhance this drowsy lament

the snow is falling as long strips of linen

across the blood-red sunset,

and the air seems to be an autumn sigh,

so gentle is this monotonous evening

in which a slow landscape coddles itself.