Beside the brook, which flows through the yellow fallow field,

The dry reed from last year still moves.

Through grayness sounds glide wonderfully,

A whiff of warm muck blows by.

From willows catkins placidly dangle in the wind.

Dreamily a soldier sings his sad song.

A strip of meadow rushes blown and dull,

A child stands in silhouette gentle and dulcet.

The birches there, the black thornbush,

Also shapes flee dissolved in smoke.

Brightly green blooms and another rots

And toads slept throughout the young leeks.

I love you truly rough laundress,

Still the flood carries the sky’s golden burden.

A small fish flashes past and fades;

A waxy countenance flows along through the alders.

In gardens bells sink long and quiet

A small bird warbles like crazy.

The soft corn swells quietly and ecstatically

And bees still collect with serious diligence.

Come now, love, to the weary laborer!

Into his hut a lukewarm beam falls.

The forest streams through the evening harsh and sallow

And now and then buds crackle cheerfully.

Yet how all that is being born seems so ill!

A feverish whiff encircles a hamlet.

Yet from branches a soft spirit beckons

And opens the mind wide and anxious.

A blooming outpour trickles away very placidly

And the unborn maintains its own rest.

The lovers bloom toward their stars

And their breath flows sweeter through the night.

So painfully good and true is, what lives;

And quietly an old stone touches you:

Truly! I will always be with you.

O mouth! that trembles through the white willow.