When the luminary full moon
Drifts across the vaults of the sky
And tit light, shining out,
Begins to play on the azure horizon;
When the nightingale’s whistling song
Starts to twitter softly in the air
When the yearning of the panpipe
Glides over the mountain peak;
When the mountain spring damned up,
Once more sweeps the path away and gushes,
And the forest, woken by the breeze,
Begins to toss and rustle;
When the man drive out by his enemy
Again becomes worthy of his oppressed country
And when the sick man, deprived of light,
Again begins to see sun and moon;
Then I too, oppressed, find the mist of sadness
Breaks and lifts and instantly recedes;
And hopes for the good life
Unfold in my unhappy heart!
And carried away by this hope.
I find my soul rejoicing, my heart beats peacefully;
But is this hope genuine
That has been sent me at these times?
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