Sweetly breathe the blossoms beside the plunging stream;
Upon the hill many a peaceful rooftop,
Encircled by green gardens,
Smiles down toward the wanderer.
 
The air wafts more pure, the world below flits away,
The pathways are shady, the broom bushes bloom;
How gently pours forth the freshness
Of the balsam bushes!
 
How the green of the Arcadian meadow shimmers!
How the valleys glisten with gold and azure!
How silvery the willow [gleams]1
In its woolly garb.
 
How the meandering waters of the brooks sparkle!
How the hills doze, with flocks [of sheep] resting all about them!
How in their dazzling tiers the mountains
Glow into the blue!
 
From the temple of peace, surrounded by flocks,
The stony paths soon disentangle themselves,
The gorge in the rocks becomes narrower,
The gloom more frightening.
 
Now the sounds of animated nature die down,
Only the waters, dully raging, foam about me,
[The waters] that high along the dark woods
Melt from the glacier.
 
Where rocky cliffs menace the raging waterfall,
There I wander, shuddering, alone in the wilderness
And see with sad pondering
The floodwaters trickling away.
 
Here the breath of May never passed,
Here no bird swings upon a scented branch;
Only moss and lichens grow green
From the wild ruins.
 
Like the evening star bathed in the crimson of evening,
Oh beloved, thus smiles your image upon me
And, with moonlit gentleness, brightens
The realm of death.
 
Oh beloved, I remember with joy and with pain
The hill, where under oaks by the lake,
In spirit we built a little hut
For all our nearest and dearest.
 
Like a quiet harmonious sound I still hear
Your sweet singing penetrates the depths of my soul;
Shrouded in the veil of the graces, you pluck
Sappho’s lyre.
 
Brightly still in the scented evening flowers
I see in my imagination the island of the peaceful Saône before me,
Where recently in the twilight
We walked beneath lilacs.
 
Still I imagine the valleys in their floral garb,
Still I imagine the woods upon the nightingale shore
Of the lake and Agathon’s halls --
[I imagine] walking through [these all] with you.
 
The magical image of illusion fades
Like foggy shapes in the rushing wind;
Coldly about my cheeks and curls
Spray swirling snowflakes.
 
Now bit by bit from the icy plain, the path
Slopes downward along a brown granite wall.
How threatening, half engulfed in mist,
Are the colossal rocks!
 
Often from the beclouded heights the blocks
Tear themselves loose with a thundering noise,
So that all about as in prolonged storms
The mountaintops tremble.
 
Deeply slumber here under the fallen rocks
At the lonely cross the bones of those who perished;
With a shudder, the wanderer avoids
This place of sorrow.
 
Rest gently, oh you dead, in the realm of the clouds!
The breath of the Eternal One moves here as well.
Instead of laurels and roses, accept
This offering of moss!
 
Over yonder descends, as eerie and silent as the grave,
A pathway over the slate from a darksome crevice,
Where premonitions of death hold sway
About ghastly chasms.
 
[This pathway] is travelled by the hunter of the mountain goats
In the greying of the rain-cloud with bold trust,
Peering about for prey
With his trusty hounds at his side.
 
Often in the course of his Herculean pursuit he penetrates
Through cold dripping [waters] and night-filled gorges
Down to the crystals’
Cimmerian halls.
 
I follow the strong one.  In dangerous battle,
As mightily as the eagle rises to the sun,
The spirit rises from imprisoning barriers
To divine thoughts.
 
Soon the chasm is traversed by the tottering path.
Down below in a magical scent, how beautifully
The pyramid shapes
Of the pines unfold!
 
Thus, after the tumult of waves and storm,
The lighthouse smiles upon the nighttime sailor
Through the fog, which greyly wafts about
The meadows of home.
 
In glory along the western horizon range
The giants of the Alps, already beshone more redly by the sun.
In the East, how gently the meadows
Are rimmed about by trees!
 
The snowy world is veiled by a whitish grey;
In the distance shine the flowery realms
Heralded by the blueness of the snowbell.
The desert vanishes.
 
Already the evening falls.  In the red light
Beside the larch grove from under the rocky cliff beckons
The hermit cell
With its mossy roof.