I sit on the hill's slope.
The sky is so clear;
a breeze plays in the green valley.
Where I was at Spring's first sunbeam
once - alas, I was so happy!
When I was walking at her side,
So intimate and so close,
and deep in the dark rocky spring
was the beautiful sky, blue and bright;
and she gazing into the sky.
Look how colourful spring already looks out
from bud and blossom!
Not every blossom is the same for me:
I like best to pick from the branch
from which she picked hers!
For all is as it was:
the flowers, the field;
the sun does not shine less brightly,
nor does the spring reflect any less
the blue image of the sky.
The only things that change are will and
Joys and quarrels alternate,
the happiness of love flies past,
and only the love remains -
The love and, alas, the sorrow.
Oh, if only I were a little bird,
there, on the meadow's slope,
then I would remain here on these branches,
and sing a sweet song about her
the whole summer long.