It grows quiet in the wood

It grows quiet in the wood; the dear little

singers on the swinging branch,

which through the night will bear their new flights,

experiment with new songs.

Soon the sun begins to descend; the giants

of the wood lift themselves higher into air, so that

with the evening's fluttering roses they

may wreathe their heads.

Already the meadow is silent;

only seldom can you hear the ringing from their necks,

and their choosy teeth pick

casually only the darker grass.

And there the guileless herdsman gazes

pensively after the sun;

flute and stick now drop from the reflecting man's hands

and he folds them for a silent prayer.