The oak forest is dreaming. In the silence of noonday humidity
The world rests all about, aglow with the gold of the sun;
No breath of wind wakens the birds in the branches,
They fell asleep, wearied by their jubilations. --
I, too, sit dreaming upon a mossy rock
And think of you. --

And, like a shadowy image, your dear face rises up
Before me from the depths of the dark pond;
Did it not seem as if your lips were calling me caressingly?
Did I not perceive your quiet footsteps?
In vain, ah, I gaze along the pathway,
You do not come anymore. --

From the rosebush bloom upon bloom falls
And wilts and dies; [the bush] offers me only thorns.
It is past! -- The time of roses shall not return,
It passed away, and you, you went with it;
Now I sit solitary upon a mossy rock
And think of you. --