English translations of Sechs Lieder, opus 7

The moon so peaceful rises
with all its golden shine,
here sleeps in lovely glitter
the weary earth below.

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And on the breezes waft down
from many faithful hearts
true loving thoughts by the thousand
upon the sleeping ones.

And down in the valley, there twinkle
the lights from my lover's house;
but I in darkness still look out -
silent - into the world.

I want to travel on the sea
With you, with you alone.
I want to be lonely 
With you on the island.

There would be no relations,
Just you and me alone,
You would not be so tough
So terrible and hard.

Lovingly, you would put your lily arms
Around my neck and chest,
And I, I could kiss you
As much as I want.

We would sit there and knit nets,
We would catch the fish in the sea.
Our only visitor would be love
And nobody else.

I want to travel on the sea
With you, with you alone.
I want to be stranded
With you on a lonely island.

You linden trees whispering of love!
At the right hand side of the street
Your overhanging branches
Are greeting me as ever!

Rosily-lit, you are showing me
The towers of the free town,
Which gave birth to my glowing love
And to my torture.

Violently, I am pulled into the town
Through the Gothic gates,
Perhaps I will meet my beloved,
But ach! It must not happen!

I would love to stay
At this beloved place;
But everything ganged up on me
And, cruelly, I am taken away.

You adamant wheels,
Why do you keep rolling,
Rolling all the time,
Out into the far unknown.

The escaping horses do not
Understand my pleading,
They continue their rushing journey,
No matter my heart is breaking.

I'm looking in vain for the reason
That I am so sad and distressed;
A tale known for many a season
Will not allow me to rest.

Cool is the air in the twilight
And quietly flows the Rhine;
The mountain top glows with a highlight
From the evening sun's last shine.

The fairest of maiden's reposing
So wonderously up there.
Her golden treasure disclosing;
She's combing her golden hair.

She combs it with comb of gold
And meanwhile sings a song
With melody strangely bold
And overpoweringly strong.

The boatman in his small craft
Is seized with longings, and sighs.
He sees not the rocks fore and aft;
He looks only up towards the skies.

I fear that the waves shall be flinging
Both vessel and man to their end;
That must have been what with her singing
The Lorelei did intend.

You fill bush and valley again
quietly with a splendid mist
and finally set loose
entirely my soul.

[ ... ]

Every echo my heart feels,
of happy and troubled times;
I alternate between joy and pain
in my solitude.

Flow, flow on, dear river!
Never shall I be cheerful,
so faded away have jokes and kisses become -
and faithfulness as well.

I possessed once
something so precious,
that, to my torment,
it can never be forgotten now.

Murmur, river, beside the valley,
without rest and calm;
murmur on, whispering for my song
your melodies,

whenever you, on winter nights,
ragingly flood over,
or, in the splendor of spring,
help swell young buds.

Blissful is he who, away from the world,
locks himself without hate,
holding to his heart one friend
and enjoying with him

that which is unknown to most men
or never contemplated,
and which, through the labyrinth of the heart,
wanders in the night.

In the shady forest, between the beech-trees,
there's a hustling and bustling, and whispers are heard.
The flickering light of the fire dances
around colorful figures, leaves and rocks.

This is where the restless gypsies gather,
with flashing eyes and flowing hair,
suckled at the Nile's holy waters,
tanned by the blazing southern Hispanic sun.

Around the fire, amidst the lush green,
the men lie, wild and brave.
The women squat, preparing the meal,
busily filling the old goblet.

Folklore and tales are shared by the group,
songs as fantastic and colorful as the gardens of Spain.
Magic words for times of distress
are told by the old woman.

Black-eyed maidens begin the dance.
Red-glowing torches are sparkling.
To the enticing sounds of guitars and cymbals
the dancers are twirling in a wild dance.

Then, exhausted by the night's dancing, they lie down and rest.
The beech-trees are murmuring a lullaby.
Those once expelled from a homeland where they were happy
 see the beloved land in their dreams.

When the morning awakes in the east
the beautiful images of the night fade away.
At dawn the mule paws at the ground.
The gypsies depart - who knows where they are going?