Here I lie on the spring hill
the cloud becomes my wing
a bird flies ahead of me.
Oh, tell me, only love,
where you stay that I stay with you!
But you and the air, you have no house.
I see the cloud moving and the river
the sun's golden kiss penetrates
with deep into the blood;
the eyes, wonderfully intoxicated,
pretend to fall asleep
only the ear of the bee listens.
I think this and think that
I long and don't really know what.
It is half pleasure, half lamentation;
my heart, oh say
What memories do you weave?
in golden green branches twilight?
Old, nameless days!
