In springtime

Here I lie upon the hillside in springtime:

The cloud becomes my wing,

A bird flies before me.

Ah, tell me, utterly singular love,

Where you dwell, so that I might stay with you!

But you and the breezes, you have no abode.

Like the sunflower, my spirit stands open,

Yearning,

Stretching itself

In loving and hoping.

Spring, what are you disposed to do?

When shall my yearning be assuaged?

I see the clouds wandering and the river,

The sun's golden kiss penetrates

Deeply, all the way to my flowing blood;

The eyes, wondrously intoxicated,

Act as if they were falling asleep,

Only the ear still listens to the sound of the bee.

I ponder this and ponder that,

I am yearning, but I do not really know for what:

It is half rapture, half lamenting;

My heart, oh tell,

What sort of memories are you weaving

In the golden-green gloaming of the branches?

-- Ancient, inexpressible days!