Now the roses are blooming

Now the roses are blooming,

love throws its nets,

you tumbling, fickle butterfly

you will never get free again.

And if I were caught

in this time of young roses,

and if it were the captivity of love,

I would fade away in misery.

I don't want to look ahead or have a care;

through blooming woods do I course,

gay songs fly

up to the treetops.