Upon the heath there is a spot
Where my dear darling
  Once sat with me in May.
Behind the bush the blackbird called,
Wild roses hung far down
  Into the bedewed grass.

Softly he spoke, and I twined
A wreath with shy hands,
  Gazing fearfully toward the valley.
But he bent down,
Lifted my head and kissed me,
  Ah, for the first time!

Oh, how the day was so bright!
And I, poor thing, did not resist him,
  I silently let it happen.
But in my giddy dream I hung
The wreath on a lilac bush,
  That had watched us.

First love, you pass by
More quickly than a storm in May,
  You do not remain a faithful guest:
Ah, my darling is long gone,
And my little wreath hangs, dried out,
  Upon the withered branch.