This autumn morning is tired with excess of light, 
and if your songs grow fitful and languid 
give me your flute awhile.

I shall but play with it as the whim takes me, -- 
now take it on my lap, now touch it with my lips, 
now keep it by my side on the grass.

But in the solemn evening stillness I shall gather flowers, 
to deck it with wreaths, I shall fill it with fragrance; 
I shall worship it with the lighted lamp.

Then at night I shall come to you and give you back your flute.

You will play on it the music of midnight 
when the lonely crescent moon wanders among the stars.