In the evening, solitude and snow conspire
to make this place a frightful landscape,
the foreground grown pale in the cold half-light,
the background distances hung with shadows.
Every so often, lake ice cracks
with a terrifying sound;
over there, in a field growing slowly vaguer,
Crows fly off and others linger, waiting.
And here’s a veiled mist
rising from one thawed pond
and then another and another:
a sort of grim homage
climbing slowly into the dead sky
from the dead land.
Voici un essai de traduction de <<Vapeurs de mare>> de Rolliinat en anglais (non-rime):