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!