I was not yet fifteen years old,
When I was already a little nun,
My mother wished it forcibly,
I must weep evermore,
And I am so young, I must stand
All alone here in the dark little chamber.

  All of the trees are full of blossoms,
The birds are singing mightily.
A brisk wind sometimes blows
A little blossom over to me.
I place it into my prayer-book,
And now I stand here doubly sad.

  Alas! and the image of Christ, it does not share,
Does not know my pain.
Alas! and no means of grace can heal
A quietly broken heart.
They call me the bride of Heaven, but
Heaven neither hears nor responds.

  When the moon rises at midnight,
There is a whispering in front of the building
At the grille, ah! so anxiously and gently:
"Dear child, come out!"
I shroud myself deeply in my veil
And sob loudly in my agony.