Where is the home of springtime?
Oh, tell me where springtime dwells!
Where is springtime's house?
Every year in May 
The migrating bird takes off,
And no one knows from whence it flew
And no one knows whither it travelled?
Where can [springtime] dwell?

  Where is the home of springtime?
Where joy lives and a merry spirit,
Where no brow is furrowed,
Where youth reigns as queen
At dances and games and feasts,
Where jovial artistry moves freely
And carries the hearts heavenward,
There is the home of springtime.

  Where is the home of springtime?
Where love tarries, where faithfulness blooms,
[Faithfulness] that never threatens to falter,
Where holy friendship burns
Within the spirit like sacrificial flames,
Where gentle forbearance precludes want,
There is springtime's June,
There is the home of springtime.

  Where peace twines a golden ribbon
About the people and the lords,
Where, with a full hand, freedom 
Strews the seeds of blessing,
Where unity protects, trust keeps watch,
There no winter of our times wields power,
[There] is the dwelling-place of eternal springtime.

  Upon the shimmering lagoons
The barque is rocking with its boatman,
At times trifling and at times rearing up
In the play of the water's waves;
Then the song of songs rings out
To the soft [tones of his] mandolin,
Every little breeze echoes it:
"There are no roses without thorns."

  When the gondolier has taken
His loveliest burden into the gondola,
With powerful arms he rows
The Madonna through the waves;
Then he is gripped by sweet anxiety,
And, quiet tears upon his cheeks,
With solemn mien he sings:
"There are no roses without thorns."

  When silently he lifts the Madonna
From the gondola, [and when she vanishes
Into the shimmering palazzo,
Whispering no greeting to the boatman,]1
Then he boards his barque,
And for a long time in his dreamy watches 
He sings to the soft [tones of his] mandolin:
"There are no roses without thorns."

In the green Maytime, in the green Maytime,
When violets bloom in the green Maytime,
I shall fetch my love, I shall fetch my love
To me from the distant land;
You [green]1 May, oh come hither
That I may fetch [my little treasure]2!

When it's springtime, when it's springtime,
[When it is once more beautiful springtime]3,
Then my beloved, [then]4 my beloved 
Shall be kissed upon her red lips:
You beautiful May, oh come along,
So that I may [kiss my little treasure]5!

My dear beloved, my dear beloved,
I remain fond of me when the violets are blue,
When Maytime is green, when the rose is red,
Then I shall marry you, you dearest of women;
Oh blissful time, come along soon,
That I may [marry my little treasure]5.

On a great, green plot
Dwells my dearly beloved treasure.

There stands a great, green tree
That reaches into the expanse of heaven.

And earthward it twines its roots
About the heart of my beloved.

From out of [the heart] there sprouts a little red rose
That says: My darling, I await you,

The nightingale, so devout in its love,
Sings ceaselessly: Come, my most beloved!

And quietly the green tree soughs:
Oh come, I still have room for you,

For here beside your dear treasure
Is surely the best place for you!

  Away over the hills
The clouds gently pass,
To dissolve there
Softly in the splendour of evening,
  Oh how beautifully, how peacefully and beautifully
Do they travel along the heavenly heights!
  Heart, my heart, you, too, soar up,
May God give you rest,
And serene, heavenly peace as well.

  Over the meadows, lo,
The birdlets are whirring swiftly!
They are seeking the softness of the nest
Deep in the blossoming bush.
  Oh how beautifully along the forest
Their evening song is sounding and resounding!
  Heart, my heart, you, too, soar up,
May God give you rest,
And joyful, quiet trust as well.

  Above on the heavens now
A little star is already twinkling,
As if it had harkened from afar --
Hark -- to the sound of the bell.
  Oh how beautifully, so mildly and beautifully
It laughs down from the blue heights!
  Heart, my heart, you, too, soar up,
May God give you rest,
And blissful, blithe hope as well.

Now the little birds are sleeping in their nests,
Now the blossoms on the bush are slumbering,
And the west winds under the canopy of heaven,
Hark, hark! they, too, are now resting.

Only on high, there the stars keep watch
And sing their eternal song,
That, echoing [from]1 endless distances,
Still quietly passes over the earth.

And He who from the beginning has directed
The whole [shimmering]2 host,
Thinks lovingly of you as well,
For you are much more important to Him [than they].

He blesses the birdlets and blossoms,
And orders the breath of the wind;
He shall protect you as well,
So you, too, rest in peace now.