Fair Nightingale, the foremost of them all?
This has the pulse of true and naive feeling (the hunter is starting for the hunt in the early morning):
When I come into the forest, still and silent everywhere,
There's a look of slumber in it, but the air is fresh and cool.
Now Aurora paints the fir tops at their very tips with gold,
And the little finch sits up there launching forth his song of praise,
Thanking for the night that's over, for the day that's just awake
Gently blows the breeze of morning, rocking in the topmost twigs,
And it bends them down like children, like good children when they pray;