The serenade

Over the roofs between pale

clouds, the moon gazes across;

a student there in the street

is singing at his beloved's door.

And the fountains murmur again

through the still loneliness,

as do the woods, from the mountain down,

just as in the good old times.

So in my young days,

would I often on summer nights

also play my lute here

and invent many merry songs.

But from her silent threshhold

they have carried my love away to rest.

And you, happy fellow,

sing, sing ever on!