And all of a sudden the nightingale-bird
Triumphantly chanted her jubilant hymn.
What are you singing about, little birds,
Twittering loudly in lime-tree and oak?
Telling each other the wonderful words
On a sweet May evening a lover spoke?
Butterflies, floating away from the trees,
With blossom-like wings of delicate dye,
You are bearing tidings certain to please,
Scatter them freely, but do not ask why.