The sky is becoming more crimson;
From out of the golden cloud,
May and love bedew the meadow,
No longer icy, with blessings.

The almighty smile [of May]
Gives the bushes their leaves,
Gives the tree its blossoms,
And [gives] the grove the song of spring.

From [May's] footprints burgeon
Green, scented herbs,
Thousand-hued flowers,
Crimson, silver, and bright gold.

[May's] daughter, love,
Builds the birds' nests,
Pairs off flowers and blossoms,
Leads the woman to the man.

The leaves whisper love,
The blossoms breathe love with their scents,
The water-spring burbles love,
The nightingale flutes love.

The arbours resound with the clinking of glasses,
The arbours sough with kissing
And with joyful conversations,
And with the smiles of those who love.

Round about the hedges grow green,
Round about the trees blossom,
Round about the birds twitter,
Round about the bees hum.

Red and green is the meadow
Blue and golden the aether,
Bright and silvery the brooklet,
Cool and shady the beech forest.

The bells of the herds ring in the valley,
Lambs bleat at the brook,
And the flute of the shepherd
Wakens the slumbering evening grove.

Nightingales, you warble your songs
Upon the resting-place of the youth,
Which is scented all about with wildflowers,
Golden dreams of kiss and dalliance!

[Dreamily he gazes upon the maiden
In the light green shadows,
Places a primula from the flowerbed
In her curly, brown hair;

Plays with the delicate ringlets,
Looks into her face more boldly,
Ah, and dares to place a bridal kiss
Upon her rosy, warm lips.]1