Death blows upon his pipe of bone;
A pale shepherd leaning against the churchyard wall,
He guards the silent flock; quietly, yearningly
Death begins his lonely song.
Moonlight flows over the broad area,
Restively the meadow suddenly breaks out,
Like lamenting tears that no one quiets;
Ah! how it now shrills wildly and gruesomely,
Like tortured sighing in the universe,
Like the wailing of a soul in a fevered dream,
Thus [now]1 the dance of death howls and rings out!
Before which the trees bow down tremblingly,
Before which the flowers hide their faces,
Before which the worm withdraws fearfully into the soil.
Those of you who are sleepless, those who are sick, shut your ears
To the song of the musician by the gate of the churchyard,
Your heart shall die, your blood shall freeze,
You wakeful ones, you sick ones, beware!