September evening; sadly the shepherds’ dark calls sound

Through the dusking village; fire sprays in the smithy.

Enormously a black horse rears up; the hyacinthine locks of the maid

Snatch after the fervency of its purple nostrils.

Quietly, the call of the doe stiffens at the edge of the forest

And the yellow flowers of autumn

Bend speechless over the blue countenance of the pond.

In red flame a tree burned; with dark faces the bats flutter up.