I spoke your name to the wandering swallow;
I spoke your name to the spring where I drink;
I spoke your name to the fragrant rose;
I spoke your name to the leaf of the wood.

I spoke your name to the perfumed breeze;
I spoke your name to the silvery cloud;
And both of them, my sweet beloved,
Lovingly carried it far and wide.

And now the rose on its stem
Whispers it to the nimble butterfly;
In the misty air, the leaf that flutters
And whirls goes to speak it to the furrow.

Gushing from the crystalline spring
The torrent speaks it to the murmuring reed;
In its frolics the speedy swallow
Speaks it discreetly to every bird.

With a sigh, the breeze in its passing 
Speaks it to the elms, to the gorse,
And the cloud carried away into space
Speaks it to the towers of antique dungeons.

Man came in order to learn it, my angel,
He is a mocker, and I answered, No!
He is a villain, and I fear his filth;
To man alone I did not speak your name.