Bass:
 When the pure purple redness of evening 
 streams gently through the delicate silver flowers,

Soprano:
 When through the eerie wasteland of the grove
 sounds the song of the sweet evening flute,

Both:
 Then your precious image floats around me.

Bass:
 When merry songs are heard through the skies,
 cooled by the flowery touch of zephyrs,

Soprano:
 and when the Apollonian flame
 paints its source a pure sliver;

Both:
 Then your precious image floats around me.

Bass:
 I often mourn at the meadow 
 because nothing satisfies my anxious yearning,
 wave after wave melts before my eyes,
 I behold an image in the bright mirror,
 and it is your precious image.

Soprano:
 I imagine you everywhere, in the grove, 
 in sunny fields,
 in the high, light-kissed, flowery meadows, 
 and never hope to see the sweet delusion,
 where your image resides deep in my heart, 
 yes, deep in my heart rests your precious image.