Teuthold, my dear one, has departed from here,
Forests and mountains conceal him from me;
Formerly my gaze could still make him out in the distance:
When I waved to him, he would wave back to me.

  Were I able to see him now rejoicing in the May moon,
Half of his joy would be mine as well;
Were he to pick a little flower, he would pick it for me;
Were he to sing a song, he would sing it for me.

  Were I to see him wandering in the familiar forest,
I would soon hear the sighing of the yearning one:
Lovingly, all-loving I would embrace him then,
Press myself closely against the dear one.

  Had I, oh had I but the power of fairies
To turn myself into every form,
I could play many a whimsical trick on him,
Oh how many joys I could savour!

  Were he to walk quietly pensive beside the cooling brook,
A little forget-me-not flower would float after him;
Were he to snatch the little flower and hold it close,
He would then have me in his loving hands.

  Were he to seek rest in the shade of the linden tree,
I would cover him with scented leaves;
Were he to walk in flowery meadows,
I would fly all around him as a butterfly.

  Were he to turn to his books in his room,
I would sit on his windowsill in the guise of a nightingale.
I would sing his own song to him:
Would he not listen and perk up his ears?

  Were only my loving, longing sighs
Carried after him by an obliging zephyr!
If my kiss were only light and winged,
It would bring him a friendly greeting every hour.