The autumn washes off the gilding
From blackened birchen curls
And mourns in the dark, lamenting   
The passing youth of hers.

The masked ball is now over.
All faces fresh and sad.
The Thunderer streams muddy water
Along the roadside.

The year sinks into the ground.        
And someone's yellow eyes              
Gaze at the country all around
And dreary howls arise.

Maybe it's merely caprices,
Maybe there is no one,
Maybe without any reasons
I am afraid alone.