Field of stubble, empty forests;
And the wind roams desolately,
Since it can find no more leaves
Rustling in response to its greeting.

The crane is departing from the meadow,
Which has cooled and grown weary of life,
Joyfully it calls that it has found
The route leading to the South.

In the midst of the autumn chill
The spring sends the migrating crane
Its solace from distant lands,
Being in secret agreement with it.

Oh, what feelings the bird must have
When, through the gloom of the mist,
Its heart is stabbed by radiant warmth
And the distant forest whisperings!

As it flies high over the sea
The fragrance of meadows lend it vigor;
Oh how sweet it is to have a sense of
Anticipation, longing, and faith!

Mist is thawing on the stubble;
Barren the forest; but I'll gladly bear it
Since perceiving the sound of the crane
Journeying into the distance.

While I was stepping
Gingerly through the stubble,
I thought at once of all the scythes
That have hacked into my life.

The bare bushes promptly made me
Feel regret for another withering
Than that of the leaves which the breeze
Had tossed about at my feet:

But it's without grudge or hatred
That I look back at buried joys,
For the heart in my bosom was singing out
Like the bird up in the skies;

Oh yes, the heart in my breast
Is at one with the crane's,
And it, too, knows of the land
Where my springtime awaits me.