O Mother, sweetest Mother, thy calling voice so dear,
Through time’s dark mist resounding in rustling leaves I hear;
Where quietly thou sleepest, o’er thy most holy tomb,
The wind now shakes the willows in heavy autumn’s gloom;
In gently rustling branches I hear the voice of yore…
The wind for ever shakes them, thou sleepest evermore.

When I shall die, beloved, thou shalt not weep fore me,
But tear a branch, my dearest, from that sweet linden-tree,
And carefully then plant it near my reposing head,
To make it grow, upon it thy loving tears shalt shed,
And on my tomb I’ll feel it, its shadows creeping o’er…
For ever grow the shadows, I sleep for evermore.

And if one day together it be our doom to die,
Not in a dreary churchyard should we be put to lie,
But near the flowing river let us for aye repose,
A single narrow coffin shall both of us enclose,
And thou shalt be for ever so near my bosom’s core…
For ever weep the waters, we sleep for evermore.

Translated by Petre Grimm