No birds in sight. The forest withers slowly,
Resigned to utter emptiness and chill.
No mushrooms, but there comes from out a gully
Of mushroom damp the strong and tangy smell.

The scrub is lighter and less tall, the greying
Grass near the bushes droops, seems trampled down;
Beneath the autumn rain the leaves, decaying,
In mouldy heaps lie of a darkish brown.

But in the fields the wind is fresh and biting.
I lead my stallion out and ride from home,
And, in the freedom of the steppe delighting,
Far from the villages till nightfall roam.

Lulled by my mount's slow, easy pace, I listen
With joy-tinged, quiet sadness to the hum
Of wind as it invades with singsong whistle
And drawn-out moan the barrels of my gun.