Carefully, the mist raised its head and spied and listened. And, when all was still, it welled forth, white and grey and billowy and noiseless. Now it lay quiet and dreamed, now it danced its queer dances over the meads. It peeped into the wood, where the lime-tree was shedding its perfume; it glided down to the river, which ran and ran and was swallowed up in the darkness.
But, suddenly, from the edge of the wood, a long and jubilant trill rang out over the valley:
Weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet!
The mist stopped and listened. The stag raised his head in the meadow, the birds opened their sleepy eyes and answered with a little chirp.
Weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet-a ... weet!
It was the nightingale, who sang:
Now bosky darkness grows.
The gradual summer-night bestows
Faint star-light on each hollow.
The merry little swallow