The sky is often bright, but then can soon weep,
It covers its clear eyes,
Which only just veiled still seem to mourn;
Thus do you shine, thus do you gleam.
 
Mourn you thus, be thus forlornly dreary,
Yes, rain down tears without number
If our love should ever prove to be changeable,
For such joy makes one fear a reversal.
 
In wondrously woven mute love
The agony is already so worrying
That it would so gladly lift the happiest gaze
To the firmament of the stars in obsequies.
 
From the sky you silent winter already blow,
You white clouds of eternal snow,
You already cover up the stars in a tumult,
Weeping, the moon plunges into the lake.
 
Here blooms the garden, the lilies of your cheeks
Mingle with amaranths,
Where chaste roses hang down and sway,
The air is humid for me and for you.