Before his cottage, in the shade

Before his cottage, in the shade,

the contented ploughman sits, his hearth smoking.

The welcoming evening bells greet a traveler

into the peaceful village.

Now the boatmen turn too toward the harbor,

and in far-off towns the merry noise and bustle of the marketplace

die down; in the quiet grove

glitters a comradely meal for the friends.

Where then shall I go? Do not mortals live

by wages and work? alternating labor with rest

makes everything well; why then will

the sting of this thorn in my breast never sleep?

Up in the evening sky a token of Spring blossoms;

infinite roses blossom and the golden world seems

at peace; o take me there,

purple clouds! and up there

into light and air may my love and grief melt away!

But, as if my silly plea had scared it away,

the magic flees; it grows dark. Alone

beneath the sky I stand, as always.

Come now, mild slumber! too much does the heart demand;

but finally, youth will burn itself out,

you restless, dreamy thing!

and my old age will be peaceful and serene.