To the moon

Silver moon with pale rays,

you often paint the forest and field;

you give the mountains, you give the valleys

a sigh of feeling.

Be the confidant of my sorrows,

sailor on the sea of the air:

Tell her, whom I carry in my heart,

how yearning for love is killing me.

Tell her that over a thousand miles

my heart pines for her.

"No distance can heal it,

only a loving glance from you."

Tell her that I have been struck mortally

and my body soon shall fall;

only a flattering hope

keeps me together.