from Fields, by Dovid Hofshteyn (1912)

There on night’s blue snows

among tree branches bare

my guard, my angel paces

from the first, the mute pains there.

Under the high hot sky

neath faraways sunlit and wide

my wanton youth is gliding

in a frame of golden rye.

Clear skies. Expanse of snow:

My first, my purest memoriams to you!

 

Original here. My translation from the Yiddish.