In a little room, a lamp
Dimly cast its light.
A mother, over the cradle
leaning, stood watch.

But in the garden, angrily
Raged a fierce storm,
Above the window, trees
Darkly rocking.
 
Rain beat down noisily, claps
Were heard of thunder;
And they exploded, seemingly,
Right above the roof of the house.
 
Over her little son,
Tenderly the mother kept watch;
Rocking the cradle,
Quietly she sang this song:
 
«Yes calm yourself, tempest!
Don’t fuss, fir trees!
My little one is napping
Sweetly in his cradle!
 
You, the voice from God on high,
Don’t wake the baby!
Pass by, clouds
Of black, go on your way.»
 
More storms, and not a few,
May be ahead for him, perhaps,
And more than once, worry
Will disturb his slumber.
 
Sleep, child, quietly!
This storm is passing,
Mother’s prayer
Protects your slumber.

Tomorrow, when you wake
And open your little eyes,
Once again you’ll welcome the sun,
And love, and my caress.