Melancholy of the Evening
— The forest which widens deceased —
And shadows are around it, like hedges.
The deer comes trembling out of hidden places
While a brook glides completely quiet
And follows ferns and ancient stones
And gleams silverly from tangled foliage.
Soon one hears it in black gorges—
Perhaps, also, stars are already shining.
The dark plain seems boundless,
Scattered villages, marsh and pond,
And something feigns a fire.
A cold gleam shoos over roads.
In the sky one anticipates movement,
A host of wild birds migrates
Towards those lands, beautiful, distant.
The stirring of reeds rises and sinks.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt