When I set foot upon hoary rock
or on the green meadow, or upon the road,
or on the sand that by the sea is washed,
I know I stand
where many others formerly have stood
and surely will do so again.
The miner, he too,
digging through the ground,
though he may be the first
surely cannot be the last
to draw breath here.
Yet the snow,
from out the sky fallen to the ground,
glistening white, clean, pure there it is,
and when its cleanness I see
transforming the bleakness of the hill
whereon I walk,
it is certain that I am the first,
that I shall also be the last,
for every flake will soon be lost,
melted away, turned into water,
with every trace that's made
by me on its matchless face.
