I am so fond of the gentle days,
When in the first moments of springtime
The sky, spread open in blueness,
Strews radiance and warmth down upon the earth;
The valleys are still grey with ice,
The hill already lifts itself sunnily,
The maidens venture outdoors,
The children's play takes on new life.

Then I stand upon yonder mountain
And [see it all]1, quietly delighted,
My bosom lifted by a quiet urging
That has not yet flourished into a wish.
I am a child and delighted
With the play of merry nature,
In nature's peaceful feelings
My soul is utterly rocked to rest.

I am so fond of the gentle days;
When emotionally stirred old folks
Take leave of their benignly [sunlit]2 meadow,
That is nature's time of repose.
It no longer stands resplendent with blossom and fullness,
All of its brisk powers rest,
It collects itself in sweet stillness,
It now gazes into its depths.

The soul, just recently so loftily borne,
It sinks [down from] its proud flight,
It learns a peaceful renunciation,
Remembrance suffices for it.
Then I find well-being in the gentle silence
That nature gave to my soul;
It is as if I were permitted to climb
Down into [my]3 silent grave.