Delightfully sound the birdsongs
when the pure angel
who conquered my young heart
wanders through the wood.
Redder bloom the valleys and meadows,
Greener becomes the grass
where the fingers of my lady
Are picking little mayflowers.
Without her, everything is dead.
Blossoms and herbs are wilted;
and no spring sunset
would seem to me as fair and fine.
Darling, lovely woman,
Never wish to flee;
that my heart, as well as this meadow,
might bloom in joy!