Far over the gorge, how quietly
The blooming meadows send greetings;
The last little star wishes to go out,
And, in parting it, still sparkles over to me.
  And near and far, with a bright sound,
  The first bells are already waking.

  Far over the gorge, the scents waft
Refreshingly down into my heart;
And, like a psalm, the rejoicing songs
Of the birds pass through the breezes.
  For me, too, they waken quietly and familiarly,
  And they ring on happily and loudly.

  Far over the gorge, from there comes peace,
And peace also wafts away;
And hark! already the old beeches and firs
Are soughing more and more
  As if down there all of them were asking:
  When, too, does our agony of yearning end?