At Eventide my Heart

In the evening the cry of bats is heard.
Two black horses prance in the meadows.
The red sycamore rustles.
The wanderer chances on the little wayside inn.
Marvellous to the taste are young wine and nuts.
Marvellous. to reel drunken in the twilit forest.
Through black boughs painful bells peal.
Onto the face dewdrops fall