Nightingales beat
Merrily their wings,
Nightingales sing
Their old songs.
And all the flowers,
They awaken again
To the clangor and sound
Of all these songs.
And my yearning becomes a nightingale
And flies off in the blooming world,
And asks the flowers everywhere,
Where my little flower is?
And the nightingales
Dance their circle-dance
In the halls of the bowers
Between the blossoming branches;
Among all the flowers,
however, I must be silent.
Among them I remain
Silent with my mournful thoughts:
One flower do I see,
That will not bloom.
.