In the dark bosom of the forest
The rose upon the rosebush 
In its bud-chalice dreams silently
Of gentle spring breezes.

I do not know who quietly
Disclosed it to the nightingale,
That in the night it draws
Circles of song about the rose.

It sings of the murmuring of water-springs,
Of the blue scent of the forest,
Where flowers exchange kisses
In the mild spring air.

In its quiet dream,
The rose hears it with trembling;
Its blossoming life can barely contain
The tight bud.

The rose struggles and trembles and glows,
And when the day awakens,
It has blossomed forth
In wondrous glory.

Intoxicated from sweet shudderings
It hearkens to the sound of the song;
But sunk in enchantment,
The nightingale now falls silent.