Do you not hear the spring running

Do you not hear the spring running

between the stones and flowers far

toward the quiet wood lakes,

where the marble statues stand

in fine solitude?

From the mountains, gently

awakening ancient songs,

the wondrous night descends

and the earth gleams again

as you often see in a dream.

Do you know the flower that blooms

in the moonlit land,

from whose buds, half-open,

young limbs bloom with

white arms and red mouth?

And the nightingale sings,

and all around, a lament is raised;

alas, wounded fatally by love,

by lovely days now gone forever -

come, o come to the silent land!