With fading light
the moon stands over deathly silent groves;
the sighs of night spirits break through the air -
misty clouds weep,
the stars mourn
palely down, like lamps in a crypt.
Similarly ghosts, mute and hollow and gaunt,
creep in black funereal pomp there,
a crowd following the cortege
under the burial night's terrible crape.

Trembling on crutches,
who, with a gloomy, sunken glance,
pours out his suffering in howling sighs,
heavily taunted by iron fate,   
swayingly following the mutely carried coffin?
Did the word "Father" flow from the youth's lips?
Wet shuddering shakes dreadfully
through his pain-wracked frame
and his silver hair stands on end.

Ripped open is his burning wound!
Through his soul, hellish pain!
"Father" flowed from the youth's mouth.
"Son", whispered the father's heart.
Ice cold, ice cold he lies here in his shroud,
and your dream, so golden once, so sweet,
sweet and golden, Father, be cursed!
ice cold, ice cold he lies here in his shroud,
your bliss and your paradise!

Mild, as if breathed upon by the breezes of Elysium,
as if slipped out from Aurora's embrace,
doused with heavenly, rosy scents,
Flora's son bounces across the flowery field;
he flew over smiling meadows,
reflected in silvery streams,
flames of desire spraying from his kisses,
hunting for the maidens with loving ardor.

Bravely he sprang into the throng of mankind,
like a youthful roebuck;
Around the sky he flew in wandering wishes,
high as an eagle in the cloudy heights;
proud as horses that bristle and foam,
storming about and tossing their manes,
prancing with a regal air against the bridle,
thus he stepped before slave and prince.

As cheerful as the spring day, life disappears,
flying past in Hesperus' gleam;
he drinks away his laments in the gold of wine grapes,
stifles pain in twirling dance.
Worlds sleep within the magnificent youth,
Ha! if someday he ripens to a man -
you will rejoice, Father, in the magnificent youth,
when one day sleeping buds open!

But no, Father, listen! the church gate is rattling,
and the iron hinges creaking open -
how dreadful it is in the depths of the grave!
But no, let the tears run their course!
Go, fine man, go on the path of the sun
joyfully onward to perfection;
extinguish now your noble thirst for bliss,
released from pain, in the peace of Valhalla!

We shall see each other again - heavenly thought!
We shall see each other there, at Eden's gate!
Hark! the coffin is lowered with a dull noise;
whispering, the grave rope comes purring back aloft!
When we drank and rolled around one another,
our lips were silent but our eyes spoke
"Stop! Stop!" and we complained angrily - 
but the tears started warmly after.

With fading light
the moon stands over deathly silent groves;
the sighs of night spirits break through the air -
misty clouds weep,
the stars mourn
palely down, like lamps in a crypt.
Dull sounds echo over the coffin toward the hills,
O, for one more glimpse of the treasures of this earth!
The bolts to the crypt lock rigidly, forever.
Duller - duller it resounds over the coffin toward the hills;
never does the grave return what it takes.