Holy spirits, you walk up there
in the light, on soft earth.
Shining god-like breezes
With its yellow pears
And wild roses everywhere
The shore hangs into the lake,
O gracious swans,
Like the stamen inside a flower
The steeple stands in lovely blue
And the day unfolds around its needle;
The flock of swallows that circles the steeple
Round about the city rests. The illuminated streets grow
Quiet, and coaches rush along, adorned with torches.
Men go home to rest, filled with the day's pleasures;
Busy minds weigh up profit and loss contentedly
The fruits are ripe, dipped in fire,
Cooked and sampled on earth. And there's a law,
That things crawl off in the manner of snakes,
The northeast blows,
my favorite among winds,
since it promises fiery spirit
and a good voyage to mariners.
Grant me just one summer, powerful ones,
And just one autumn for ripe songs,
That my heart, filled with that sweet
Music, may more willingly die within me.
When I was a boy
a god would often rescue me
from the shouting and violence of humans.
Then, safe and well, I would play
As on a holiday, when a farmer
Goes out to look at his fields, in the morning,
After cool lightning has fallen through the hot night,