human
And the wind brought ills upon me, And the frost brought bitter sorrows. 150 Tore the wind my green cloak from me, Frost my pretty dress from off me. Thus am I of all the poorest, And a most unhappy birch-tree, Standing stripped of all my clothing, As a naked trunk I stand here, And in cold I shake and tremble, And in frost I stand lamenting.
gpt
Weep no more, O verdant birch-tree! 160 Leafy sapling, weep no longer, Thou, equipped with whitest girdle, For a pleasant future waits thee, New and charming joys await thee. Soon shalt thou with joy be weeping, Shortly shalt thou sing for pleasure.