You smile from out of your rocky cradle,
Mysterious alpine lake,
And through your lovely lineaments 
You waken the old pain to new agony.

Wherefore your sweet, loving wooing
That soughs about me in the beating of your waves?
For I know that it is only ruin
That hearkens in your cool arms.

Thus did her dear eyes gaze,
So heaven-reflecting -- blue and clear!
In order to draw the soul from my breast,
[The soul] that now follows her immutably.

Therefore, I now stray about -- separated from her --
From my very self -- through the mocking of fate,
Here without life, without peace,
Like the [spectres]1 at [the river] Acheron.

Oh sing, silver sylphs,
[Sing] the whispering chorus of the sirens
To one who is sick with yearning – [to one who is] weary of life,
[Sing to him of] his own experience.

I can understand the vein of pain
That anxiously trembles through your waves,
I myself have experienced
These woes, these felicities.

 In Augsburg stands a lofty house,
 near the old cathedral.
 Out into the bright morning steps
 a pious maiden;
 a hymn rings out
 and to the cathedral
 the dear figure goes.
 
 There in front of Mary's sacred image
 she kneels down to pray:
 Heaven has filled her heart
 and all earthly joy flees:
 "O Virgin pure!
 Let me be
 yours alone!"
 
 When the muffled toll of the bells
 awakens the worshippers,
 the maiden walks along the halls:
 she does not know what she is wearing;
 upon her head
 bright with Heaven's gleam,
 there is a wreath of lilies.
 
 With astonishment gaze all the people
 at this little wreath, bright in her hair,
 but the maiden does not go far;
 She steps in front of the high altar:
 "Dedicate me as a nun,
 me, your poor maid!
 Die, love and joy!"
 
 God, grant that this maiden
 may wear her wreathe in peace;
 she is my heart's true love,
 and she will remain so until Judgment Day.
 She does not know it,
 and my heart is breaking;
 Die, love and light!

Waters, flow quickly, 
Shimmer like pearls,
May the breath of my love 
Hover over you;

Hover over you 
As gently as the breezes of May,
Shroud woods and lea 
In a blue scent.

And in the blue scent, 
And in the [sunbeam]1
Sough the greeting of my love 
Through the valley.

[Through the valley sough]2
Sweet premonition
So that he may joyfully 
Sense that I am near.

Oh take me once more, Mother Earth,
Take me once more upon your lap --
I do not wish to know what I shall become,
Only release me from my burden!

Why then did you cast me out
Into this dark night?
I have enjoyed little happiness,
The child wishes to go home to its mother.

You twined me no wreath,
You did not gladden me with smiles,
With suffering I only felt
That you had sent me away in wrath.

A sorrowing was my entire life,
A long-drawn-out sound of pain --
Though you gave me love,
The son always missed his mother.

Therefore, take me now into your arms,
Onto your lap so softly and gently,
That I may warm myself upon your breast
And slumber as your dear child:

I wish to lie peacefully in [my] little bed
And gaze only upon your face,
I wish to nestle blissfully up to your heart
And, Mother, I do not wish to weep.

[A]1 house stands in a dark shaft,
The works clatter day and night,
   The forest brook roars,
   The bellows blow mightily,
The hammer sounds, the irons [spark]2,
And tall flames glow around me.

Down in the valley, silent and small,
There lives the daughter of the miller --
   She never kisses me,
   That Annmarie,
She reckons that black does not go with white --
[But] if there were no black, how then could there be white!

When night and day are closely joined,
Is there not a golden twilight?
   Can there be anything more beautiful 
   Than morning glow?
Oh Annmarie! you do not know
How colour refracts upon colour.

If you [were sitting]3 by the anvil here near me,
I would show you the beautiful flames --
   The night has 
   Brought them to light,
And if you saw me in the sea of flames
You would not say that I am so ugly.

Often I sit there in a quiet dream,
And hardly hear the commotion around me,
   How the hammer resounds,
   And the coals crack,
And from the sparks, gruesome and wild,
I piece together your image for myself.

Then it comes over me like the shivering of a fever,
The mute sorrowing is dissipated --
   Set the works going!
   Ha! Blow upon blow!
The flame leaps forth from the stove
The sparks spray forth from the chimney.

The earth booms from the hammer-blows --
Does the sound not penetrate into your garden grove?
   Do [you not]4 think of me,
   As I think of you?
Oh Annmarie, do you not hear
How [the blacksmith's love speaks]5?

In the quiet nunnery garden
The blossoming begins again,
But only white roses peep
Out of the dark green.

In the flowerbeds there are lilies
Like new-fallen snow,
Their heads are half-inclined
As if they were bearing a sorrow.

And in the green walk
A gentle nun walks,
Shrouded in a white veil,
To the image of the mother of God

She kneels before the image,
And gazes up at it,
And from her eyes two tears
Run [down her face].