In the green summer foliage,
where the vibrating vines creep,
the blonde maiden sits and thinks,
the flitting bees humming drowsily.
The fountain babbles dreamily,
swallows twitter and chirp;
from the warm blue sky come breezes 
that swing the butterflies to and fro upon the flowers.

Upon white, closed eyelids
breathes gentle slumber.
A pale traveller comes down the path
through the flowering bushes of the garden;
the traveler Death is coming.
At his withered lips he holds
a flute, made of grey bone,
and he plays to the slumberer a pretty
and melancholy lullaby.