Here I lie on the spring hill the cloud becomes my wing a bird flies ahead of me. Oh, tell me, only love, where you stay that I stay with you! But you and the air, you have no house.
I see the cloud moving and the river the sun's golden kiss penetrates with deep into the blood; the eyes, wonderfully intoxicated, pretend to fall asleep only the ear of the bee listens.
I think this and think that I long and don't really know what. It is half pleasure, half lamentation; my heart, oh say What memories do you weave? in golden green branches twilight? Old, nameless days!
