See, Doris, how in the moonlight
The fir tree [shines . . . how beautiful!]1!
Above all other trees in the forest
I have chosen the fir tree.
 
  How peacefully it stands in the valley,
Planted by the hand of God!
No frost, no sunbeam bleaches
Its eternally green garment.
 
  Upon its branches no worm,
No devious hawk builds its nest,
And though the fir’s head may bend in the storm,
Its foot nevertheless stands fast.
 
  Thus it stands until from out the humid air
A bolt of lightning topples it,
And [even then]2 it exudes a sweet scent
Until it is covered by cool moss.
 
  When someday, Doris, I am covered by cool moss,
In the moonlight tear yourself
From the arms of our children
And walk into this grove.
 
  Lying beneath my fir tree,
Sing in cheerful tones
Your song that so often moved me,
The one about Hylarion.
 
  And should sighs enter the song,
Then look up toward Heaven
From whence He looks down,
He who can unite us.
 
  And when, as if touched by a zephyr
The top of the fir tree trembles;
It is my spirit that, unseen,
Wafts about your hair.
 
  And if I toss a little twig
Down to you at the foot of the tree,
Consecrate it with a kiss
And place it upon my grave.