To an aeolian harp

Leaning up against the ivy-covered wall

Of this old terrace,

You, an air-borne muse,

A lute-melody full of mystery,

Begin,

Begin again,

Your melodious lament!

You come, winds, from far away,

Ah! from the boy

Who was so dear to me,

From his hill so freshly green.

On your way, streaking over spring blossoms

Saturated with sweet scents,

How sweetly, how sweetly you besiege my heart!

You rustle the strings here,

Drawn by harmonious melancholy,

Growing louder in the pull of my longing,

And then dying down again.

But all at once,

The wind blows violently

And a lovely cry of the harp

Echoes, to my sweet terror,

The sudden stirring of my soul,

And here, the ample rose shakes and strews

All its petals at my feet!