Springtime begins to smile
A westerly breeze takes flight
And passes through the valley with a wafting;
Let that be comfort enough for you!
  The first birds are singing
From the blossoming willow tree,
And with the sound the evil
Dream of winter is passing away.

  The first violets are already
Perkily getting ready to bloom,
And light clouds gaze
Down upon the young greenness.
  Ah! though with threatening and snorting
Winter might nevertheless return,
Only have courage! do not let yourself be robbed
Of your springtime joy, my heart!

  Springtime begins to smile,
Let that be comfort enough for you!
Though the breeze leaves off its wafting,
The thawing wind is taking flight!
  From all the counties it sweeps
The evil guest away,
So that soon there shall be flowers 
To be seen upon every pathway!

  That is the loveliest time, hurray!
When in the morning already at two and three
The birdlets sing in the forest,
  Yes, some right after midnight already,
Before the dear sun has yet wakened,
Let their dear little voice resound!

  That is the loveliest time, hurray!
When everything grows green and blooms in May,
No little grass blade remains concealed,
  The sky is blue, and the air mild,
The mountains are clear, and the scent is sweet
In the evening as in the morning!

  That is the loveliest time, hurray!
Well! in the morning already at two and three
Get on the move quickly,
  And delight in all the joy and splendour,
And rejoice and sing by day and by night,
As God has commanded the forest to do!

  Far over the gorge, how quietly
The blooming meadows send greetings;
The last little star wishes to [go out]1,
And, in parting it, still sparkles over to me.
  And near and far, with a bright sound,
  The first bells are already waking.

  Far over the gorge, the scents waft
Refreshingly down into my heart;
And, like a psalm, the rejoicing songs
Of the birds pass through the breezes.
  For me, too, they waken quietly and familiarly,
  And they ring on happily and loudly.

  Far over the gorge, from there comes peace,
And peace also wafts away;
And hark! already the old beeches and firs
Are soughing more and more
  As if down there all of them were asking:
  When, too, does our agony of yearning end?