Arm in arm and treetop to treetop stands the labyrinthine oak forest.
 Today it was in a good mood and sang me its old song.
 
 By it distant outskirts, a young sapling started to sway gently,
 and then it went further until it was swishing and flexing;
 
 it came here in a powerful surge, swelling into broad waves;
 rolling high through the treetops came the storm flood.
 
 And now in the treetops there was a horrid singing and piping in the air,
 and in between, below among the roots, there was a crunching and droning.
 
 Many times, loudly, the highest oak would brandish its trunk alone,
 followed by a chorus of the entire grove resounding thunderously!
 
 This beautiful game was much like the wild surf of the sea;
 all the leaves, gleaming white, swept out toward the northeast.
 
 In such a way does ancient Pan bow his old fiddle, loudly and softly,
 teaching his woods the old melodies of the world.
 
 Inexhaustibly he rambles up and down, using only seven notes;
 all songs use these seven ancient notes.
 
 And they listen quietly, the young poets and young finches;
 crouching in the dark bushes they drink in the melodies.