Pious and quiet is the miners' manner,
For he walks upon rough ways,
But a gentle blessing from heaven
Makes his lot seem less hard to him.
 
Even if he must do without
That which fills others with joy,
Must walk alone and in darkness,
He is nevertheless rich in pleasures.
 
When he ascends after a long shift,
The bright, blithe earth greets
Him with new worth
And with a more radiant light.
 
The tree is greener for him,
More blue the arch of the sky,
More lovely the waves on the river,
More scented the forested realm.
 
Every flower nods to him,
Little birds scatter their songs
More joyfully down to him than to others,
And the well-spring murmurs to him: Rest.
 
Without sorrowing therefore he descends
Again into the dark chasms,
Into the dank air of the abyss,
Where only horrors surround one.
 
For to that which he has left
He shall surely return,
And only renunciation makes
Earth into a paradise.