I hear the brooklets rushing
here and there in the wood.
In the wood, amidst the rushing,
I know not where I am.

The nightingales sing
here in the solitude,
as if they wanted to speak
of fine old times.

The moonbeams dart
and I seem to see below me
a castle lying in the valley -
yet it is so far from here!

It seems as if, in the garden
full of roses white and red,
my sweetheart were waiting for me -
yet she is long since dead.

Sleep, my darling, because on earth
It now becomes so quiet and strange!
Overhead travel the golden herds,
Over us all the shepherd watches.

In the distance there are thunderstorms;
Alone upon the agile little ship,
I strum the strings of my zither outside,
Because I feel so oppressed and anxious.

Winding themselves about trees and branches
Into your little chamber,
As upon golden ladders, climb
These sounds in and out.

And a wondrously beautiful lad,
Sails high over valley and ravine,
With his golden staff he creates
A rustling in the warm breeze.

And in wondrous tunes
He sings an ancient song
That behind his little boat
Trails in gentle magical circles.

[Ah, the sweet sounds are ensnared]1
[And carried] into the distance by the amorous wind,
And through locks and walls they are discerned
Dreamily by [every beautiful]2 child.