No birds in sight. The forest withers slowly, br Resigned to utter emptiness and chill. br No mushrooms, but there comes from out a gully br Of mushroom damp the strong and tangy smell. br br The scrub is lighter and less tall, the greying br Grass near the bushes droops, seems trampled down; br Beneath the autumn rain the leaves, decaying, br In mouldy heaps lie of a darkish brown. br br But in the fields the wind is fresh and biting. br I lead my stallion out and ride from home, br And, in the freedom of the steppe delighting, br Far from the villages till nightfall roam. br br Lulled by my mount's slow, easy pace, I listen br With joy-tinged, quiet sadness to the hum br Of wind as it invades with singsong whistle br And drawn-out moan the barrels of my gun.