Buried in snow 
  Mourning nature stiffens;
No merry bird abides
  Upon the desolate lea;
The ponds are frozen,
The bushes defoliated,
  And all around the world is a grave.

Only I, ah! only I abide
  Before your desolate door:
Upon a pastoral guitar
  I sing a song of you;
With an impassive soul I see
The north-wind, which threatens me, surging forth
  From Aeolus’s blackest cave.

Oh not worthy of kisses
  From your divine lips
Is he, you sweet one, who does not
  Desire danger and pain for your sake:
Who would not unperturbedly smile, 
Despite the heaviest burden,
When your image hovers before his eyes!

But most gracious Themire,
  Gentle as the youngest west wind,
Open your door
  Before my spirit departs!
My limbs already grow stiff;
Soon I shall sink feebly down,
  And slumber away into eternal night.

With my last glances
  I would look only toward you:
With rapture, my last breath would
  Yet call you beautiful!
But this recompense for faithfulness
Would afterwards turn into remorse,
  Would be the mother of future melancholy.