The butterfly has never told her:
he dares not disclose his suffering;
but longs for the love of a rose
that idolizes the morning breeze. 

The morning breeze is dying
of love for the mist,
and the mist, lost and deeply affected,
languishing of love, adores the river,
adores the river. 

But, oh dear! The river, frolicsome, ran away
frolicsome, from rock to rock.
The enamoured mist followed the river,
and the morning breeze the mist. 

In the meantime, alone and abandoned,
the flower has shed her petals,
and, on that stem without corolla,
the butterfly comes to a halt, folds his wings, and dies.
Ah! Folds his wings and dies, folds his wings and dies.