I have a cottage by the hill,
It stands upon a meadow green,
Behind it flows a murmuring rill,
Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.
Beside the cottage stands a tree,
That flings its shadow o’er the eaves;
And scarce the sunshine visits me,
Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.
A nightingale sings on a spray,
Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers, on their way,
Linger to hear her plaintive song.
Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharpened chill,
Will thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?
_Translation of_ S. H. WHITMAN. JOHANN W. L. GLEIM, 1719–1803.