The trees dance about the inn;
The wind thrusts them into flamelets.
Now my thoughts gipsying,
Go forth to strange walls and new fires.
Mouths stained with brown-red berries,
Bronzed cheeks sunken, unshaven,
Ragged attire;
We swing our guitars at the hip
As we tramp heedless, uncaring.
In the inn the fire crackles:
On the hearth the wine is simmering.
Lift up the brown beaker one instant,
Drink deeply — fling out the last coin — let us go.
On the plains there is drooping harvest,
But no harvest can for long time hold us,
We have seen the winds, baffled,
Racing up the orange-flecked trench of the hills.