Die Schöne Müllerin The Miller's pretty Daughter


My lute’s now hanging on the wall
Draped with green ribbon overall.
I no longer sing, my heart’s too sore;
In rhyme I can’t tell it any more.

Once, however great the pain which caused my heart to burn,
To light-hearted song this pain I’d turn,
And as I sang some sweet, well-wrought lament,
My suffering was, I thought, quite evident.
How great now is the burden of my joy
That to contain it I can no earthly sound employ.

Rest then, dear lute, here on your nail,
And if a breeze should move your strings,
Or bee should brush them with its wings,
Dread anguish will my heart assail.

Why did I let the long, green ribbon fly
To touch the strings with mournful sigh?
Is that the echo of a love for which my heart still longs?
Or could it be the prelude, the promise of new songs?