How lovely it is here to dream away 
the night in the quiet woods,
when in the dark trees
the old fairy-tales echo.

The mountains stand shimmering in the moonlight
as if deep in thought,
and through the tangled undergrowth
the stream rambles, lamenting.

For wearily upon the meadow,
Beauty walks now to her rest, 
and with cool shadows
Night covers up the dear one.

There is an eerie lament
in the quiet splendour of the wood:
the nightingales sing
about her the entire night.

The stars rise and set --
When will you come, morning wind,
and lift the mists again
from the dreaming child?

There is already a rustling in the trees,
The lark will awaken soon --
Thus would I like faithfully to dream away
The night in the quiet woods.