The Dark Valley

n pines a migration of crows flutters away And green evening fogs rise And like in dream a sound of violins And maids run to the dance in the inn. One hears laughter and shouts of drunkards, A shower goes through old yews. In deathly pale window panes The shadows of the dancers scurry past. It smells of wine and thyme And lonely calling resounds through the forest. The beggars listen on the steps And begin to pray senselessly. A deer bleeds to death in the hazel bushes. Dully gigantic tree arcades sway, Overloaded by icy clouds. Lovers rest embraced by the pond.