Stormy clouds delirious straying, Showers of whirling snowflakes white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Further speeds the sledge, and further, Loud the sleighbell's melody, Grewsome, frightful 'tis becoming, 'Mid these snow fields now to be! Hasten! "That is useless, Master, Heavier for my team their load, And my eyes with snow o'er plastered Can no longer see the road! Lost all trace of our direction, Sir, what now? The goblins draw Us already round in circles, Pull the sledge with evil claw! See! One hops with frantic gesture, In my face to grin and hiss, See! It goads the frenzied horses Onward to the black abyss! In the darkness, like a paling One stands forth,--and now I see Him like walking-fire sparkling-- Then the blackness,--woe is me!" Stormy clouds delirious straying, Showers of snowflakes whirling white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Sudden halt the weary horses, Silent too the sleighbells whirr-- Look! What crouches on the ground there? "Wolf,--or shrub,--I know not, Sir." How the wind's brood rage and whimper! Scenting, blow the triple team; See! One hops here! Forward Driver! How his eyes with evil gleam! Scarce controllable the horses, How the harness bells resound! Look! With what a sneering grimace Now the spirit band surround! In an endless long procession, Formless, countless of their kind Circle us in flying coveys Like the leaves in Autumn wind. Now in ghastly silence deathly, Now with shrilling elfin cry-- Is it some mad dance of bridal, Or a death march passing by? Stormy clouds delirious straying Showers of snowflakes whirling white, And the pallid moonbeams waning-- Sad the heavens, sad the night! Cloudward course the evil spirits In unceasing phantom bands, And their moaning and bewailing Grip my heart with icy hands! PUSHKIN. UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY The charm and sweetness of his magic verse Will mock the envious years for centuries! Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns, The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees, And careless joy to wistful musing turns. PUSHKIN. _Jukowsky was a Russian poet_. THE VISION