Over the tree tops glides the moon,
Woods are dancing in the breeze,
Through the boughs of alders trees
Plays the horn a woeful tune.
Ever farther, far away,
Ever fainter is its breath,
But it salves with thirst for death
My sad soul, forlorn for aye.
Why should you keep silent when
My witched heart for you is bound?
Gentle horn, are you to sound
For my solace once again?