Where dwells the soul that is attuned to mine?
The star of the darkling evening does not perceive
My wish; that which my heart lacks
It does not grant me.

When the nightingale sings in the poplars,
Oh friend, how I am so deeply moved!
Familiar with the meaning of her tones,
My sound frightens her away.

The moonlight flickers over me, somber and pale,
Through the tops of the firs and the pine shrubbery;
The weary brooklet that flows over the rushes
Sighs slowly behind me.

The echo in the rocky crags consumes
The lament that yearning brings it.
Soon that which the forsaken one calls out disappears
Into empty air.

Effusion, you familiar one, and appeasement is lacking
For my desolate heart, plagued by a yearning
That nature, which [my heart] loves fervently,
Cannot assuage!

To be sure, the exchange in song of empathetic feelings
Succeeded in softening bitter sorrow.
From out of laments, familiarly shared with friends,
Comfort blossoms.

Related souls utterly understand each other!
Take the forget-me-not wreath of this song
From which, wafted about with sighs of premonition,
The warning issues:

Where do you dwell, beloved one? Already a tree is growing green for us,
A tree for a coffin! a space is already greening for us;
The space where in future, surrounded by trembling grasses,
My burial mound shall rise!