My heart is silent, my heart is cold

My heart is silent, my heart is cold,

frozen in the winter's ice;

sometimes, but only in its depths, it seethes,

trembles, and stirs quietly.

Then it is as if a gentle dew

has melted through the cover of frost;

through green woods and blooming meadows

the brook murmurs anew.

And the sound of horns, carried from leaf to leaf

by the spring wind,

echoes from the gulches faintly in my ears,

like a shout from happier days.

Yet the aging heart will grow young no more;

the echo of a dying sound

fades into the distance

and once again everything lies frozen.