Serenade

The moon hangs over the mountain,

So fitting for love-struck people.

In the garden trickles a fountain;

Otherwise, it is still far and wide.

Near the wall, in shadows,

there stand the students three:

with flute and fiddle and zither,

they sing and play there.

The sounds waft up to the loveliest of women,

gently entering her dreams.

She gazes on her blond beloved

and whispers: "Forget me not!"