Fyodor Tyutchev
Winter’s spite is vain...

Winter’s spite is vain
for its time has come at last.
Knocking at the panes,
spring has cast
it out and everything’s in turmoil,
bustling Winter out,
and skylarks in the blueness
have taken up the shout.
Winter is still fussing
and grumbling at the spring.
The latter laughs right in her face,
her noise is louder still.
The evil sorceress is wild.
She grabs a pile of snow.
She runs away and starts to throw
it at the pretty child.
That hardly causes Spring much grief:
she washes in the snow,
and just to spite her enemy,
her cheeks begin to glow.

Translated by Frank Jude