Who fills now the meadows
With shining white blossoms?
Who fills now the forests
With needles like leaves?
No warm winds make grow them,
No summer makes ripen
The fruit in the fields
That the farmer has sown.
No autumn wind colours
The forests with brightness,
The shade of the needles
Not dark on the pines.
As white as the blossoms,
So white stands the forest:
In frozen bright beauty
Paints winter his land.
