"Give me my fill of solitude."
In the valley, snowed over with blossoms,
there towers a cathedral, and nearby
in the high style, the abbey:
 like its founder, pious and still,
a haven and asylum for the weary;
here, cooled by sacred refreshment,
contemplation never ends.

But the fresh young man is tormented,
even in his consecrated cell,
by fiery, rejuvenating images;
and a wild storm springs forth
from his breast; he seeks to suppress it
but in the blink of an eye
his peace and fragile happiness
are swept away by the torrent.

"Give me my fill of action."
People teem far and wide,
coaches cross each other and kick up dust,
customers bustle about the shops,
red gold and pleasing stones
tempt the hesitant inside,
and as a substitute for the green countryside
there are offered masked balls and theatricals.

But in the resplendent palaces,
amid the joy of noisy celebrations,
springs up the flower of melancholy,
and lowers her head toward the sanctuary
of his innocent youth -
to the blue land of shepherds
and the edge of the bright stream.
Alas, that he ever departed!

"Give me the pleasure of company!"
Friendly companions, seated in a row
at the table, sing in a chorus
and help smooth the rocky path of life!
So it goes up to the crown of the beautiful hill
and down to the river's dancing,
our affection grows ever stronger
with true, strong reaching out.

But when his friends have parted
his peace is also gone.
He is preoccupied by the pain of longing,
and he gazes heavenwards:
the star of Love is shining.
Love, love calls in the balmy air;
Love, love breathes flower's fragrances,
and love reverberates in his inner being.

"Give me my fill of bliss." 
Now he walks, intoxicated
by her hand in his, a silent conversation,
among the beeches, beside the white foamy brook,
and if he must walk through wastelands,
the shine of her sweet eyes will light his path;
and in the most hostile confusion
he will trust his gentle guide.

But the tombs of his great ancestors,
 the crowns of conquerors, the battle standards,
allow him no further peace:
and he must do exactly as they,
and be immortal like them.
Look, he is climbing on to his tall horse,
Brandishing and testing his shining sword;
and he rides off into battle.

"Give me my fill of gloom." 
There they lie, stretched out in the blood,
their lips stiff, their eyes wild and broken,
they who first defied their fear.
No father returns to his family,
and there returns home a very different army.
Those whom war has robbed of their dearest ones,
greet them now with sad welcome!

So now the guardians of his fatherland
seem like grim fratricides,
who nurture the noble goodness of freedom 
with the red blood of mankind.
And he curses frantic fame
and exchanges the noisy, milling crowd
for the forest, green and cool -
for a life in the wood.

"Give me the consecration of solitude."
Through the dense darkness of pines
the sun's gaze penetrates only half and half,
and paints the layers of needles pale yellow.
The cuckoo calls from the thicket;
on the grey bark the woodpecker pecks,
and thundering over the rocky barrier
the streaming brook indulges its bold torrent.

Whatever he desired, whatever he loved,
whatever delighted him, whatever troubled him,
sweeps past with gentle rapture,
as if amid a sunset.
The youth's longing for solitude
becomes the old man's portion,
and a life rough and precarious
has yet led to happiness.