Clouds are heavy in the sky,
 snow still covers the earth,
 when the herald of spring looks
 forth with worried longing;
 
 It is the snowdrop,
 that looks forth with fear,
 whether in the thin skirt,
 is it not too cold up there?
 
 It looks to all sides
 and mournfully shakes its head,
 only blustery wind blows,
 no tree is yet in leaf.
 
 Then, a deep grief grips
 the small flower's heart,
 it must say good-bye,
 must return to its grave.
 
 ``Farewell, you lovely flowers, 
 I would have loved to see you,
 when bees buzz around you,
 my time will be over !
 
 Farewell, you sweet-smelling roses,
 you violets, delicate and fine,
 when wind and butterflies caress you,
 everything will be dark around me!''
 
 But see! But see, with airily wafting there
 comes a wind, that is
 followed by a bird, which comes with joyful singing
 over the sea.
 
 A second bird follows,
 what would he do alone,
 and happily
 spring follows behind.
 
 To what sweet joys
 the little flower's heart inflames,
 even when dying it wants to
 perform its office!
 
 Then it tells without tiring
 as it heralds, small and weak,
 as from the shadows of their graves
 the sleeping flowers awake.
 
 But they have hardly emerged
  from their graves
  with whisperings
 when the small herald sinks down into his.