In the evening the forest unties its bells,
and birds ring for a quiet nest,
the cuckoo rings the big ones,
the nightingale rings the loveliest.

Every forest branch is sprinkled with song
and every note-leaf is its child,
from heaven’s ceiling hangs a lamp
from which silver threads are drawn.

And every string ends in sleep,
dreams leap like sparks from tree to tree,
only the doe brushes them off
and bathes in the forest dew.

Now even the ringers are asleep,
the forest’s breath quiets for a first nap,
and if the nightingale chirps,
that will sound an awakening.

Now all is asleep, even the doe naps,
even the bells hang exhausted,
Night’s footsteps echo throughout,
so nature can fall asleep.