I am walking under quivering aspen-trees,
I am walking with silent thoughts of glamour,
Weary of reading famous visionaries.

The sun is setting saga-crimson beyond the burning line of woods:
I see it with sore and fevered vision.
Then come gusts of subsiding evening breezes
That stir the aspens.

Over the mown leas gusts from the Land of Winds
Still scutter at times in the tops of the aspens.
Over the mown leas haymakers in the languor of evening
Plod homewards, passing between hanging birches.

My spirit in its frail body, quickened by the Land of Winds,
Longs to communicate itself to kindred life.
I salute you, aspens, my brothers, my sisters.

I am walking under quivering aspen-trees,
Mute, absorbed, with the steps of an exile.

Take me into your quivering, aspens.