Through the branch net, all along,
One can hear a charming song
Fondling all the ears that lie
By the linden old and high...
Through the leaves, when dies the day,
Tries the moon to make its way,
It's so beautiful and bright
And sheds down its gleams of light.
Start the trumpets to sound soon;
As the disk of the sweet moon
Passes over glades and trees,
Trumpet notes flow with much ease.
The green woods will answer then
And my soul gets lost again,
Grieved, but also filled with grace,
When I think of your nice face.
And the birds will sing above
Showing all their care and love,
Chirping in the woods and thus
Laughing at or...pitying us.
Translator: Octavian Cocoş
see more poems written by: Mihai Eminescu
