Morning Serenade, Opus 48 (Max Bruch)

Fragrant winds are freshly blowing
far resounding waters fall;
O’er the lonely seacliffs going,
Woodland voices sweetly call.

Forms from dreamland, idly playing,
with the early morning light,
On the vine’s young tendrils swaying,
Touch thy window swift and light:

Nearer come we, half in dreaming,
And our voices thrill and tell
All that rustles in the branches,
All that spring time loves so well

With the rosy dawn of morrow
Have fluttered far away;
But our tones of joy and sorrow
long within thy heart will stay.