Already evening. Dew
Glistens in the nettles.
I stand at the roadside
Leaning against a willow.
The great light of the moon
Falls full upon our roof.
I hear a nightingale
Singing somewhere far-off.
I feel good and warm, grand
As the winter stove.
And like big candles stand
The birches of the grove.
And far away, beyond
The river and the town,
A drowsy watchman knocks
His dead stick on the ground.