Decorations are festooning the jubilee hall.
Brightly lit, many-colored, the garden canopy
stands open in the mild summer night.
Climbing like columns, in pairs,
are green-entwined serpents of iron,
twelve of them, with their twisting necks,
bearing and propping up the
lightly railed-off roof.

The bride, though, remains in hiding
in the small parlour of her house.
At last the wedding procession moves off,
carrying torches,
solemnly quiet.
And in the middle,
Myself on her right hand,
dressed in black, the bride modestly walks;
a scarlet shawl, neatly creased,
is tied around her dainty head.
She goes smiling; the aroma of food is wafting already .

Later, amid the clamor of the feast,
we two stole away on one side,
strolling towards the shady garden,
where the roses blazed in the shrubbery,
where moonlight flickered around lilies,
where the Weymouth pine with its black hair
half overhangs the surface of the pond.

There on the silken lawn, oh, heart to heart,
how my kissing devoured and stifled her bashful kiss!
Meanwhile the fountainhead, uninvolved
in the whispers of rapturous love,
found lasting joy in its own tinkling;
we, though, were teased from afar and summoned
in vain by the friendly voices,
voices of flutes and strings.

Weary, all too soon for my wishes,
her slight, dear head lay in my lap.
Playfully pressing my eyes upon hers,
I briefly felt, until the moment that sleep
stilled them, her long lashes
moving up and down like a butterfly's wings.

Before the rosy dawn appeared,
before the little lamp went out in the bridal chamber,
I woke the sleeping girl,
and led the strange child into my house.