A sweet harp-strain
sings its way into the blossoming valley;
softly, soft flower-bells, soft
delicate little voices sound along with it.

Sunken into the flowers, a maiden
lies, young and beautiful,
intoxicated with the scent of spring and with the sun
in the bright, joyful sound.

And they come striding up,
a springtime procession,
springtime standing in the middle
with a throne of blue silk.

And they stand silently and marvel,
tilting their little heads from side to side,
and they whisper and they murmur
about the lovely sleeping girl.

and springtime descends,
inclines its flower-scepter and
kisses her upon her rosy eyelids
and upon her lips pale with yearning,

so that now in this silence
she sees all the heavens opened
and in the fullness of these flowers
herself blissfully, silently fades away.