In the green woods, in the sunshine
I gladly wander quietly alone,
And if I utter only a single word,
Immediately a strange song is made of it
By a birdlet.

It sings of love and loneliness,
Of the sweet joy of the time of flowers,
Of the blue of heaven and a merry spirit,
Of the time of roses and the tears therein,
Of joy and sorrow.

It sings of the powerful splendour of the oaks,
Of the plunging of waves in the night of the firs,
Of cloud shadows in flight,
Of thunder in the rocky chasm,
And the wild hunt.

Oh birdlet, be still there upon the tree!
Lightning is already forking at the edge of the woods,
Oh no, a red evening glow
Gently and purely releases from your breast
The dream of life.