IT is a marsh, whose sleepy water 
Lies stagnant, covered with a mantle 
Of lily-pads and rushes; 
And at the least noise, the croaking frogs 
Dive under their light-green cover. 
To it flies the black and gray snipe 
When, on a frosty November morning, 
The bleak north wind blows; 
Often, from the dark clouds above, 
Plover, lapwing, curlew, and crane 
Alight there, weary from a long flight. 
Under the creeping duck-weed 
The wild ducks dip 
Their sapphire necks glazed with gold; 
At dawn the teal is seen bathing, 
And when twilight reigns, 
It settles between two rushes and sleeps. 
The stork that snaps his bill, 
With eye turned towards the opaque sky, 
Awaits there the time of departure; 
And the heron with slender legs, 
Smoothing the feathers of its wings, 
Drags out there its lonely life. 
Friend, when the autumnal mist 
Spreads its uniform mantle 
Over the gloomy face of heaven, 
When the whole town is slumbering 
And when the day is just breaking 
On the silent horizon, 
You whose shot always carries 
Sure death to the swallow, 
You who, at thirty paces, 
Ne’er missed the fleet-footed hare, 
Friend, indefatigable hunter, 
Not to be deterred by a long journey, 
With Rasko, your dog that follows, 
Bounding behind through the high grass, 
With your good bronzed gun, 
Your hunting-jacket, and your whole outfit, 
Go and hide there near the bank, 
Behind the trunk of a broken tree. 
Your sport will be deadly; 
Through the meshes of your game-bag 
Many a bird’s legs will pass. 
And you will return early, 
Reaching home at dusk 
With joyful heart and kindled eyes.