Four dreary moons have passed away
Since I have been mourning,
The dun-coloured wormwood is already turning green
Upon the grave of my friend.
There in the moonlight I often listen
To the night song of the crickets,
And lean my grief-bleached cheek
Against her funeral wreath.

  There I sit, a poor, poor child,
In the cold breeze of evening;
And many a tear of longing flows
At the dun-coloured wormwood bush.
The lilac and the lime tree blow
Anxious chills into my soul,
And tall, dismal shadows flit
Around the wall of the churchyard.

  The church windows tremble,
The bells stir;
It shines, it shines!  Ah, do I see you
With your bright curls?
It is the moon that, emerged from the cloud,
Shimmers into the church windows,
And flickers along the red ribbon,
Along the gilding of the funeral wreaths!

 ...