We hear the blind and aimless galloping
Of an errant rider from the days gome by:
The shackled souls of sunken forests moan
As ancient marshes waken with a sigh.

Where here and there the thickets, coppices
Are choked in patches, densely in a strife,
The spectres of the ancient wintry tales
Are now awakened to a sudden life.

Here are the thickets, here the coppices.
Here are the dismal tunes of bygone choirs:
They have been hidden in a murky fog
Since martial times of our grim, gallant sires.

Dreary and haunted are the autumn days,
The people numbert less and always less;
And on the hill-surrounded swampy plain
November walks encloaked in foggy dress.

The naked plain begins quite suddenly
To nurture reeds and marsh of rotten trees,
Concealing its November foggy self
In gloomy mists of bygone centuries.

Nothing but blood, nothing but mystery,
Nothing but pressures, forefathers mystify;
Nothing but forests, marshes, reeds and canes,
Nothing but madmen of the days gone by.

The errant rider from the long ago
Follows the path along the recent swale;
There is mo light, there are no burning lamps,
There are no villages along the trail.

The villages are mutely slumbering,
Freezing they dream of bygones in their lair
As from the foggy thickets rush and fun
The bison, wolf and, ragingly, the bear.

We hear the blind and aimless galloping
Of an errant rider from the days gone by;
The shackled souls of sunken forests moan
As ancient marshes waken with a sigh.