Rushing about, brisk and courageous.
Dark is the night, it is scared to death, and
Clouds, like kerchiefs, have covered the crescent.
Wind, letting out hysterical hoots,
Whirls like a shot to the back of the woods.
Fir-trees are threatening to hit with a spear
Owls lie hidden, a-wailing from fear.
Waving her harridan’s clutches, she shouts.
Up in the sky stars are winking from clouds.
Vipers, like rings, hanging down her hair,
Spinning with blizzard, she whirls in the air.
Ringing, the pines make the witch dance and cry.
Clouds grow dark as they, trembling, float by.
Sergey Yesenin
1915