There’s a green oak by the bay, on the oak a chain of gold: a learned cat, night and day, walks round on that chain of old: to the right – it spins a song, to the left – a tale of wrong. Marvels there: the wood-sprite rides, in the leaves a mermaid hides: on deep paths of mystery
unknown creatures leave their spoor: huts on hen’s legs you can see, with no window and no door. Wood and valley vision-brimming:
there at dawn the waves come washing over sands and silent shore, and thirty noble knights appear one by one, from waters clear, attended there by their tutor: a king’s son passing by
takes a fierce king prisoner: a wizard carries through the sky a knight, past all the people there,
over forests, seas they fly: a princess in a prison pines,
whom a brown wolf serves with pride: A mortar, Baba Yaga inside, takes that old witch for a ride. King Kaschey grows ill with gold. It’s Russia! – Russian scents unfold! And I was there and I drank mead, I saw the green oak by the sea,
I sat there while the learned cat told its stories – here’s one that!