The wind blows on Tannen hill, The stream roars down the valley; I wander alone through wood and snow, many miles from peak to peak.
And though life in the open valley would be better in the sun's rays, I must go over wilder scenes to better look upon Winter.
On green heath, on flowered meadows, must I hardly ever show my sorrow, I, whose life springs from stones, And ah, only one who locks away her heart.
Oh love, oh breezes of May, You press the shoots from tree and bush, The birds sing from the green heights The brooks gush from their sources.
I let myself wander in dark despair through whistling winds on a rough road. Oh shimmering Spring, oh blossom time, shall I never again find your delight?