117 179 The crow flew so fast The summer moonlight That he left his lonely caw Gleams upon a blacksmith's forge, Behind in the fields. And cools red embers. 120 183 Crying and crying, All the city's bells Melodious strings of geese Clang deafeningly this midnight, Passing a graveyard. Frightening the New Year! 134 184 One autumn evening No birds are flying; A stranger enters a village The tree leaves are still as stone, – And passes on through. An autumn evening. 142 187 A wounded sparrow In an old woodshed Sinks in clear cold lake water, The long points of icicles Its eyes still open. Are sharpening the wind. 144 191 Amidst the flowers Little boys tossing A China clock is ticking Stones at a guilty scarecrow In the dead man's room. In a snowy field. 171 193 With indignation Standing patiently, A little girl spanks her doll, – The horse grants the snowflakes The sound of spring rain. A home on his back. 172 196 The scarecrow's old hat Tossing all day long, Was flung by the winter wind The cold sea now sleeps deeply Into a graveyard. On a bed of stars. 175 200 Coming from the A silent spring wood: A bull has a lilac sprig A crow opens its sharp beak Dangling from a horn. And creates a sky.
117 The crow flew so fast That he left his lonely caw Behind in the fields. 120 Crying and crying, Melodious strings of geese Passing a graveyard. 134 One autumn evening A stranger enters a village And passes on through. 142 A wounded sparrow Sinks in clear cold lake water, Its eyes still open. 144 Amidst the flowers A China clock is ticking In the dead man's room. 171 With indignation A little girl spanks her doll, – The sound of spring rain. 172 The scarecrow's old hat Was flung by the winter wind Into a graveyard. 175 Coming from the A bull has a lilac sprig Dangling from a horn. 179 The summer moonlight Gleams upon a blacksmith's forge, And cools red embers. 183 All the city's bells Clang deafeningly this midnight, Frightening the New Year! 184 No birds are flying; The tree leaves are still as stone, – An autumn evening. 187 In an old woodshed The long points of icicles Are sharpening the wind. 191 Little boys tossing Stones at a guilty scarecrow In a snowy field. 193 Standing patiently, The horse grants the snowflakes A home on his back. 196 Tossing all day long, The cold sea now sleeps deeply On a bed of stars. 200 A silent spring wood: A crow opens its sharp beak And creates a sky.