From my homeland, beyond the red lightning,
The clouds come drifting in,
But father and mother have long been dead,
Now no one knows me there.
How soon, ah! how soon till that quiet time
When I too shall rest
Beneath the sweet murmur of lonely woods,
Forgotten here as well.
It was as though Heaven
Had softly kissed the Earth,
So that she in a gleam of blossom
Had only to dream of him.
The breeze passed through the fields,
The corn swayed gently to and fro,
The forests murmured softly,
The night was so clear with stars.
And my soul spread
Her wings out wide,
Flew across the silent land,
As though flying home.
I hear the brooklets murmuring
Through the forest, here and there,
In the forest, in the murmuring
I do not know where I am.
Nightingales are singing
Here in the solitude,
As though they wished to tell
Of lovely days now past.
The moonlight flickers,
As though I saw below me
The castle in the valley,
Yet it lies so far from here!
As though in the garden,
Full of roses, white and red,
My love were waiting for me,
Yet she died so long ago.
True, I can sometimes sing
As though I were content;
But secretly tears well up,
And my heart is set free.
Nightingales, when spring breezes
Play outside, sing
Their song of longing
From their dungeon cell.
Then all hearts listen
And everyone rejoices,
Yet no one feels the pain,
The deep sorrow in the song.
Dusk is about to spread its wings,
The trees now shudder and stir,
Clouds drift by like oppressive dreams—
What can this dusk and dread imply?
If you have a fawn you favour,
Do not let her graze alone,
Hunters sound their horns through the forest,
Voices wander to and fro.
If here on earth you have a friend,
Do not trust him at this hour,
Though his eyes and lips be smiling,
In treacherous peace he’s scheming war.
That which wearily sets today,
Will rise tomorrow, newly born.
Much can go lost in the night—
Be wary, watchful, on your guard!
Over the garden, through the air
I heard birds of passage fly,
A sign that spring is in the air,
Flowers already bloom below.
I could shout for joy, could weep,
For it seems to me it cannot be!
All the old wonders come flooding back,
Gleaming in the moonlight.
And the moon and stars say it,
And the dreaming forest whispers it,
And the nightingales sing it:
‘She is yours, is yours!’