An die Nachtigall
To the Nightingale


Not so loud, with those love-sick songs
Whose rich sounds you unveil
From the apple blossom-laden bough,
My nightingale.

From your sweet throat you pour
Sounds that make my love awake.
Deep in my soul I already know
The molten thrill of that love’s ache.

Then, yet again sleep flees this place;
I stare
With tearful, pale and haggard face
At heavens’ glare.

Fly, my nightingale, to where it’s green and dark,
Fly to your nest in the coppice grove
There to kiss your life-long love.
Fly, fly away.