by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Night. Open Country
FAUST. MEPHISTOPHELES
(Rushing along on black horses)
FAUST
What weave they yonder round the Ravenstone?
MEPHISTOPHELES
I know not what they shape and brew.
They're soaring, swooping, betiding, stooping.
A witches' pack.
They charm, they strew.
On! On!