The day sinks into its grave,
The dew falls,
The sky is bathed in a rosy glow.
Now it is so quiet --
I know not what I want --
I believe that I am sad.

   The frog croaks in the reeds,
The fox is skulking about on the moor,
In the distance I hear joyful singing.
My heart rises to the heights,
I know not what I see,
The tear courses down my cheek.

   There behind the willow,
Far beyond the moorland,
There a mill rises up:
It seems as if I were there
Sitting at the gate
Upon the mill-hill and playing in front [of the mill].

   The from out of the house,
An old man looks out,
He so often held me upon his arm;
The mill-stone ran and clanked,
The man sat and sang,
The heavens were rosy and warm.

   I was still small then --
Now I am alone,
Who knows if he still stands there?
The air is so eerie,
The song is so sad --
Praise God that the mill is still working!