From my beautiful well-loved linden tree,
Which kindly provided me with shade,
The evil winds are, ah!
Tearing off millions of leaves.
 
Pale and trembling all of them fall
Close by my window,
Just as if in their falling they sought
Protection from their neighbour.
 
Good leaves! your burgeoning
Made my heart burgeon as well.
Do you not come in order to serve as a metaphor
For the weal and woe of my life?
 
For in my summer days
Joys blossomed about me,
Enemies turned them into lamenting,
And they wilted -- are no more.
 
Driven by the cold north-wind
You die far from your tree-trunk,
Just as I [die] far from all loved ones
Who were taken from me by jealousy and misfortune.
 
Come, patience, you must comfort me,
For you, too, are a duty
Practised only by the best [of mankind],
For the scoundrel does not know it.
 
But in warm spring days
The linden tree shall become green anew --
Then from its laments
My soul, too, shall be free once more.
 
If God blesses in sprouts and blossoms,
My children's spirit and good fortune,
Ha! then His goodness shall bring
Back my weal a thousandfold.