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.

 ...