By the hut, left by people and heaven,
Where the fences black remnants are steeping,
The ragged beggar and black old raven,
Were discussing the dreams of the sleeping.
The old bird, with commotions moans,
Was repeating in hot indecision,
That he had on the towers stones
The unusual, fabulous visions;
That in flight, full of valor and air,
He, who lost their usual sadness,
Was a swan, snow white, sweet and fair,
And the beggar a prince of the greatness!
The ugly pauper was helplessly wailing.
Heavy night was descending and reigning.
The old woman, while passing the dwelling,
Was unceasingly crossing and praying.
