The forest fades, the foliage turns
And frolics in every colour,
The wheat has long since fallen before the sickle,
The ears of wheat became sheaves.
The golden lustre of the yellow-green treetops
Mingles with dark brown shadows,
Crimson glows throughout the corona of mountains,
Fiery bushes blaze.

Now autumn has been granted power,
The wind roars in the branches,
And long gossamer strands float about,
The little birds fall silent.
Cold air blows through the rooms
As if to grasp our hearts;
When the leaves fall, we must
Part from that which we hold dearest.

Thus wilts the joy that make us happy,
[The joy] for which, with gratitude and blessings,
We still strewed the last flowers
Upon wintery ways.
And it becomes quiet, soon the snow shall cover
What departed, ready for death,
And envelops unrest, strife, and sorrow
In the peace of deep sleep.