Over the boundless moor,
here is the wind announcing November,
over the moor, endlessly,
here is the wind
that tears itself from limb to limb
in heavy breaths, battering the burghs,
here is the wind
the wild wind of November.
In the wells of farms
the pails of iron and pulleys
are creaking;
to the tanks of farmsteads.
The pails and pulleys
creak and cry
of death, in their melancholy.
Along the water, the wind makes off with
the dead leaves of birches,
the wild wind of November;
the wind bites, in the branches,
the nests of birds;
the wind, a rasp of iron
furiously combs the distant avalanches,
of old winter,
furiously, the wind,
the wild wind of November.
In the pitiful cowsheds
the patched-up skylights
toss their puny rags
of pane and paper.
– The wild wind of November! –
On its mound of yellowing brown grass,
from low to high, through flows of air,
from high to low, with lightning bolts,
the black windmill darkly scythes,
the black windmill scythes the wind,
the wind,
the wild wind of November.
The old thatched roofs, crouched
all around the church bells,
are shaken on their poles;
the old thatched roofs and their canopies
chatter to the wind,
to the wild wind of November.
The crosses of the cramped cemetery,
the arms of the dead are these crosses
falling like a great spread of wings,
darkly folded, against the earth.