In snowy foam - late afternoon -
You get up in the distance behind me,
There, where they are given the sunk
They turned their ships.
Do not see either of masts, no sails,
What attracted from snowy places,
And at the far temple bleak
Burnt out last cross.
And on this path snowmaking
If you get up - thou shalt not.
And the soul of a hopeless
irrevocable understand.
You will hear a white pier
remote horn.
You will understand the growing distance
Call encased in snow.
3 January 1907
