For I know that soon my lovely
Schwarzwald child, the youthful [ Wiese],
Comes to meet me, bashful, timid;
And she prattles, in the rough speech
Of the Almains, of the Feldberg,
Of the ghosts beheld at midnight,
Of sweet mountain flowers, and huge
Caps and thirsty throats at Schopfheim.
Yes, I love her, I have never
Gazed enough at her blue eyes yet.