Silent and alone there rides
The old duke into the forest.
 
He rides over rock and thorn,
At his side dangle his sword and horn.
 
And ever gloomier grows the path,
How cliff after cliff looms.
 
He comes upon a mill there,
But there is no life far and near.
 
All of the passageways have collapsed,
The swell of the water drives no mill wheel.
 
Through the open roof the sky peers in,
Ruins all about, all overgrown with weeds.
 
Within he sees only a bench,
The sombre guest seats himself upon it.
 
He crosses his arms upon his breast,
And unknowingly closes his eyes.
 
Then it becomes lively all about him;
The mill-works rumble dully and heavily.
 
The water roars, the grove lives,
The mill-wheel clatters merrily.
 
And see, carrying sacks in and out
Mill-hand upon mill-hand comes through the bustle.
 
From the walkway, only just empty and desolate,
The miller sends a friendly greeting to those below.
 
Now flying down the stairs with a skip
Comes his daughter, so dewy and young.
 
Her face is as clear as the heavens,
Her beautiful hair is dancing in braids.
 
She approaches the duke and proffers
The glass in which liquid gold is shining.
 
As in olden times, his heart feels
Then the bliss of love.
 
And with his gaze turned toward the child
He stretches out his hand for the glass.
 
But as he hastily reaches for it,
It is only air that he grasps.
 
Vanished thus is glass as well as wine,
The miller and his daughter.
 
No mill-wheel turns, no water roars,
Only the wind blows harshly through the beams.
 
And the duke again throws himself
Upon his steed and rides off.
 
He rides mutely along the forest
And brushes a tear from his cheek.