From this one bliss of song and of lyre
It rises, like a maiden,
Shining clear through its spring veil,
And comes to rest in my ear.

And slumbers within me. And its sleep is All -
Trees I have admired, distances which are tangible,
Meadows that can be touched,
And every astonishment at myself.

The World sleeps within it. - Oh singing god!
How do you accomplish this, that it does
Not crave awakening? See, it rises and sleeps.

Where is its death? Oh, will you elucidate
This theme before your song consumes itself? -
And where does it sink to from within me? ... Like a maiden ...