I praise
My little hamlet here!
For more beautiful meadows
Than these round about
Upon which my gaze falls,
Bloom nowhere else.
What a domain
As a most beautiful image
For Dietrich's hand! 
Here a rocky cliff,
There fields of grain
And meadows green,
Whose borders are defined
By blue woods!
By yonder heights
The sheep farm
And nearby
My carefree place!
Thus I call my
Beloved, little
Hermitage,
In which I live
Hidden away for delight,
Greenly canopied
By a web
Of elm and grapevine.
 
There sloes encircle
The brown chasm,
And poplars sway and bend
In the blue air.
With a soft rippling
Slowly creeps here
Upon silvery gravel
A bright brook;
Soon it flows timidly
Under branches
That, arching,
Bow down above it;
It soon reflects
The green hills
Where lambs amble,
Reflects the little bushes on its banks
And lets all the little fish
In its depths be seen,
There glide loaches
And blow pearly bubbles.
Their rapid darting
Now goes downward,
Then upward
To the surface again.
 
The lea is lovely;
But Elise alone
Makes it for me
A paradise.
 
  The first glimpse
Of morning wakens
Our happiness as well.
Only lightly clad
She leads me thither,
Where the beds of Flora
Are bedewed by the tears
Of the Queen
Of the Sunrise,
Who lets pearls sparkle
Forth from the tips
Of every grass-blade.
The bud breaks open
Its replete breast;
The flower unfolds
Itself to pleasure.
It blooms, but blooms
Not more beautifully
Than the face
Of Elise glows.
 
  When it grows warmer
We go together
To the Meander River
That winds down below.
In order to bathe
The shepherdess
Lets her skirt glide
To the riverbank.
Should I not hasten
To share the rapture? --
The day is sultry,
The place is secret,
And clear and cool
Is the bathing water-spring.
 
  A light repast
Then increases the number
Of our pleasures.
In soft grass
By meadows of poplars,
The full beaker
Stands between us two.
The drink soon expands
The heart now,
And wit enlivens
The gentle jest.
She comes and beckons,
And pours a glass for me,
But, laughing, she
Drinks the wine herself;
She then flees and thinks
That she has hidden herself well;
But, soon discovered,
She must atone
For her crime with kisses.
 
  Thereupon she mingles
The melody
Of her sweet throat
With the cry
Of the nightingale,
Who never sang
As soulfully as she.
 
  Thus ever cycle
Joy and pleasure,
And we are never beset
By tedium.
 
  Oh bliss!
May time never
Destroy you!
Grant me brisk blood,
Grant her a faithful spirit
And charm!
Good fortune may then,
With full hands,
Squander itself utterly
Upon everyone
Who can drag himself about.
I look upon it
Far from jealousy,
And then strike up
My little song
To the dance of joy:
I praise
My little hamlet here!