A lovely song, like the singing of sirens,
Sounded in the grove in the early morning,
It still fills my intoxicated ear;
The birches high upon the rocky cliff
And down below the alders on the banks of the brook,
They sang it, chorus after chorus.

"Come up, come up into the free realm,
We shimmer in bright garments,
Our curls are shot through with dew;
The fog penetrates deeply into our feet,
Come up, we sing the song of freedom,
Smiled upon by heaven’s blue!"

Come down into the cool, scented lowland,
We wait, united into an intimate group,
In darkly surging splendour;
Far above us the sun sprays forth its heat,
We sing that which does the heart good,
Breathed through by the weaving night!"

"Here on high you can see the light of truth,
Oh do not trust the tempting sisters
In their midnight adornment.
Here on high is heaven and gladness,
Here the bosom can breathe so easily, freed
From the pressure of earthly anxieties!"

"Here below in the deeply concealed womb
Of the secret bay where the waves caress,
Only sweet cares have a place;
In the deeply shaded cool house,
Upon the swelling lawn, there you shall dream
The blissful dream of love to its end!"

Thus sounded from on high, thus sounded from below
The whispering of the tones in alternation,
And round about was peaceful rest;
The thrush fell silent and the nightingale,
The zephyr fell silent and the waterfall,
And listened to the trees.