Pretty cradle of my sorrows,
 pretty tombstone of my rest,
 pretty town - we must part, -
 farewell! I call to you.
 
 Farewell, you holy threshhold,
 across which my darling would tread;
 farewell! you sacred spot
 where I first saw her.
 
 Would that I had never seen you,
 lovely queen of my heart!
 Never would it then have happened,
 that I would now be so wretched.
 
 I never wished to touch your heart,
 I never begged for love;
 all I wished was to lead a quiet life
 where your breath could stir me.
 
 Yet you yourself pushed me away from you,
 with bitter words at your lips;
 Madness filled my senses,
 and my heart is sick and wounded.
 
 And my limbs are heavy and sluggish;
 I'll drag myself forward, leaning on my staff, 
 until I can lay my weary head 
 in a cool and distant grave. 

 With myrtle and roses, lovely and pretty,
 with fragrant cypresses and gold tinsel,
 I would decorate this book like a coffin
 and bury my songs inside it.
 
 O if only I could bury my love there as well!
 On the grave of Love grows the blossom of peace;
 it blooms and then is plucked, -
 yet it will bloom for me only when I am myself in the grave.
 
 Here now are the songs which, once so wild,
 like a stream of lava that flowed from Etna,
 burst from the depths of my heart,
 and spray glittering sparks everywhere!
 
 Now they lie mute and death-like,
 now they stare coldly, pale as mist,
 but the old glow will revive them afresh,
 when the spirit of love someday floats above them.
 
 And in my heart the thought grows loud:
 the spirit of love will someday thaw them;
 someday this book will arrive in your hands,
 you, my sweet love in a distant land.
 
 Then shall the songs' magic spell be broken,
 and the white letters shall gaze at you;
 they'll gaze beseechingly into your lovely eyes,
 and whisper with sadness and a breath of love.