I always s like the northern birches: br Their view, so downcast and grave, br The fever, which poor souls scorches, br Cools like the mute speech of a grave. br br But yet, the willow, which branches, br With their long leaves, cast in a flood, br Is closer to a dream, that scourges, br And longer lives in our heart. br br Deploring groves their own, br Their meadows – with bitter tears, br Tell birches to cold wind alone br Their common sufferings and fears. br br Believing that the whole ground br Is motherland of sacred grieves, br The weeping willow all around br Inclines its branches with long leaves.