Knowest thou where the lemon blossom grows,
In foliage dark the orange golden glows,
A gentle breeze blows from the azure sky,
Still stands the myrtle, and the laurel, high?
Dost know it well?
'Tis there! 'Tis there
Would I with thee, oh my beloved, fare.

Knowest the house, its roof on columns fine?
Its hall glows brightly and its chambers shine,
And marble figures stand and gaze at me:
What have they done, oh wretched child, to thee?
Dost know it well?
'Tis there! 'Tis there
Would I with thee, oh my protector, fare.

Knowest the mountain with the misty shrouds?
The mule is seeking passage through the clouds;
In caverns dwells the dragons' ancient brood;
The cliff rocks plunge under the rushing flood!
Dost know it well?
'Tis there! 'Tis there
Leads our path! Oh father, let us fare.

There was a King of Thule,
faithful to the grave,
to whom his dying beloved
gave a golden goblet.

Nothing was more valuable to him:
he drained it in every feast;
and his eyes would overflow
whenever he drank from it.

And when he neared death,
he counted the cities of his realm
and left everything gladly to his heir -
except for the goblet.

He sat at his kingly feast,
his knights about him,
in the lofty hall of ancestors,
there in the castle by the sea.

There, the old wine-lover stood,
took a last draught of life's fire,
and hurled the sacred goblet
down into the waters.

He watched it plunge, fill up,
and sink deep into the sea.
His eyes then sank closed
and he drank not one drop more.