O the black angel, who stepped softly from inside the tree,
When we were gentle playmates in the evening
At the edge of the bluish fountain.
Peaceful was our footstep, our eyes wide in the brown coolness of autumn,
O the crimson sweetness of stars.

But he descended the stony steps of the Moenchsberg,
A blue smile on his countenance, and strangely cocooned
In his stiller childhood, and died;
And in the garden the silver countenance of the friend remained behind,
Listening in the foliage or in old stone.

Soul sang death, the green corruption of the flesh,
And it was the rustling of the forest,
The ardent lament of the prey.
Always the blue bells of evening rang from the dusky towers.

The hour came, when he saw shadows in the crimson sun,
Shadows of decay in the naked branches;
Evening, when the blackbird sang beside the dusky walls,
The spirit of one dead young appeared silently in the chamber.

O the blood which flows from the throat of the singer,
The blue blossom; o the fiery tears
Wept into the night.

Golden cloud and time. In a lonely chamber
Often you invite the dead one for a visit,
Beneath elms you wander closely conversing down the green river.