The cold night is staring blearily,
Under the mats of my carriage,
Under the runners, the field is squeaking,
Under the shaft bow, a little bell is pealing,
And the coachman is hurrying on the horses.

Beyond the mountains, woods, in the smoky clouds,
The dull specter of the Moon is shining;
The howling of hungry wolves
Resounds in the fog of dark woods...
I see strange dreams.

I dream: there is a bench,
On the bench there is an old woman,
She’s spinning yarn until midnight,
Telling me my favorite fairy tales,
Singing lullabies,

And I see in the dream how I’m riding on the back of a wolf,
Along a path in the woods,
To war with a sorcerer king,
Into a land where a princess is locked up,
Languishing behind a sturdy wall.

There, a glass palace is surrounded by gardens,
There, firebirds are singing at night,
And pecking at golden fruit,
There, there is a spring of life-water and death-water,
You both can and cannot believe your own eyes.

[And the cold night is still staring blearily,
Under the mats of my carriage.
Under the runners, the field is squeaking,
Under the shaft bow, the little bell is pealing,
And the coachman is hurrying the horses on.]