Which flower I love, I cannot discover; This grief doth impart. In every calix I search like a lover, And seek a heart.
The flowers smell sweet in the sun’s setting splendour, The nightingale sings. I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender, And like it springs.
The nightingale sings; his sweet song, void of gladness, Comes home to my breast; We’re both so oppress’d and heavy with sadness, So sad and oppress’d.
Sweet May hath come to love us, Flowers, trees, their blossoms don; And through the blue heavens above us The rosy clouds move on.
The nightingales are singing On leafy perch aloft; The snowy lambs are springing In clover green and soft.
I cannot be singing and springing, Ill in the grass I lie; I hear a distant ringing, And dream of days gone by.
Softly through my spirit ring Blissful tones loved dearly; Sound, thou little song of spring, Echoing far and clearly.
Sound, till thou the home com’st nigh Of the violet tender; And when thou a rose dost spy, Say, my love I send her.
With the rose the butterfly’s deep in love, A thousand times hovering round; But round himself, all tender like gold, The sun’s sweet ray is hovering found.
With whom is the rose herself in love? An answer I’d fain receive. Is it the singing nightingale? Is it the silent star of eve?
I know not with whom the rose is in love, But every one love I: The rose, the nightingale, sun’s sweet ray, The star of eve and butterfly.
All the trees with joy are shouting, All the birds are singing o’er us-- Tell me, who can be the leader In this green and forest chorus?
Can it be the grey old plover, Wise nods evermore renewing? Or yon pedant, who is ever In such measured time coo-coo-ing?
Can it be yon stork, the grave one, His director’s airs betraying, And his long leg rattling loudly, Whilst the music’s round him playing?
No, the forest concert’s leader In my own heart hath his station, All the while he’s beating time there,-- Amor is his appellation.
“The nightingale appear’d the first, “And as her melody she sang, “The apple into blossom burst, “To life the grass and violets sprang.
“She her own bosom then did bite, “Her red blood flow’d, and from the blood “A beauteous rose-tree came to light, “To whom she sings in loving mood.