2.
In the wood, the verdure’s shooting,
Joy-oppress’d, like some fair maiden;
Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward:
“Welcome, young spring, rapture-laden!”
Nightingale! I hear thee also,
Piping, blissful-sad and lonely,
Sobbing tones and long-protracted,
And thy song of love is only!
3.
The beauteous eyes of the spring’s fair night
With comfort are downward gazing:
If love hath made thee so small in our sight,
Yet love hath the power of raising.
Sweet Philomel sits on the linden green,
Her notes melodiously blending;
And as to my soul her song pierceth e’en,
My soul once more is distending.
4.
Which flower I love, I cannot discover;
This grief doth impart.
In every calix I search like a lover,
And seek a heart.
The flowers smell sweet in the sun’s setting splendour,
The nightingale sings.
I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender,
And like it springs.
The nightingale sings; his sweet song, void of gladness,
Comes home to my breast;
We’re both so oppress’d and heavy with sadness,
So sad and oppress’d.