A white birchie in the field stays being deep in thought,
Having unplated tressies, why d’you look so sad?
May be winds of winter suddenly offended,
May be lengthy nights did not see your tears?

Yes, we’re the Northern winds
We blow in summer strongly,
And we meant no hurt
You, white birchies.

Tears ‘ll be washed away by a deep streamlet-rivulet,
The new moon, a yellow taper, is like a distant star.
Leafy grovelets-bosks rustle over the wide steppe –
Only grass is around you and unfettered swallows fly.

So, don’t cry, a birch of white, plaits are warmed by the Sun,
And the waves of the dark blue brook‘ll wash away your tears!