The soughing of the wind, God's pinions,
Deep within the cool forest night;
As the hero swings himself into the horse's stirrups,
The power of storms surges thither.
As the old fir trees swish
You hear the whirlwind roar.
 
As flaming bolts of lightning shoot
Through the green of the fir-tops!
And at their fiery kisses
The oak -- singed -- topples to the ground;
Rapidly the flame flickers and flares,
As if ordered into God's presence.
 
Listen! to hearken down into the valley
You are being beckoned;
There the hidden murmuring of water-springs
Beats beguilingly upon your heart;
Airily the throng appears,
The throng that entices you into the waves.
 
Be warned of the elves
Who beckon you into the dale,
Ensnare you with love's allurement
And with singing from sweet lips.
You feel the blowing of beguiling breezes
Passing through your soul.
 
To evade the snares of spirits
You are helped only by the might of the storm,
The soughing of the wind, God's pinions,
Deep within the cool forest night
Unbridled, you bound
Through the dark tempestuous night,
You hear without horror in the breezes
The singing of spirits roar.