Music by Franz Schubert (1797-1828), on poems by Wilhelm Müller (1794-1827)

English translations ©2013 by Edward Lein; all rights reserved. Please notify and credit when reprinting

To wander is the miller's joy, To wander! One must a dreary miller be

Who never thinks to wander free, I heard a brooklet gushing As from its craggy source, Toward yonder valley rushing, Fresh o'er its dazzling course. I know not what o'ertook me, Nor led on my behalf, Yet I could only follow Whither went my walking-staff. Through the alder forest peeking A mill there I espy, O'er babbling and singing Breaks a mill-wheel's cry. Might this be what you meant, My brash-babbling friend? Thy singing, Thy clattering, If a thousand Arms had I stirring! If I could keep The mill-wheels whirring! I'll ask no flower blooming, I'll ask no star alight, They naught could tell to me anyway How I might solve my plight. I'd like to carve it into each tree's bark, I'd like to etch it on each tiny rock, I'd like to sow it in each fresh-tilled field With cress seeds, for they'd be most quick to yield Good morning, lovely miller-maid! Why dost thou turn thy head away, As though something aggrieves thee Thickly grow florets by the brook, With bright blue eyes they stand and look; The brook's the miller's friend e'er true We sat cozily by each other Neath cooling alder trees, We gazed so silently together Brooklet, let thy rushing be! Mill-wheels, let thy roaring cease! All ye woodland birds so merry, Large and wee I have hung my lute upon the wall, I have strung it up with a green ribbon-- I can sing no more, my heart is too full. I no longer know how to force the rhymes A pity about that pretty green ribbon, Just fading here on the wall-- I like green so much! So you said, dearest, to me just today; What then does a hunter want here, by the millstream? Stay, impudent hunter, in your own territory! There is no game here for you to hunt; Where to so fast, so muddled and wild, my dear stream? Do you race full of rage after that cheeky Brother Hunter? I wish to clothe myself in green, In the green of weeping willows; My sweetie is so fond of green. I'd like to wander out into the world, Out into the wide world; If only it weren't so green, so green All you dear flowers That she gave me, You shall be laid In my grave beside me The Miller: When a faithful heart Expires from love, Then Lilies wither In all their beds Sweetest sleep, sweet repose! Let thine eyelids close! Wanderer, weary one, thou hast come home. Here trust shall be, Des Baches Wiegenlied Der Müller und der Bach Trockne Blumen Die böse Farbe Die liebe Farbe Eifersucht und Stolz Der Jäger Mit dem grünen Lautenbande Pause Mein! Tränenregen Des Müllers Blumen Morgengruß Ungeduld Der Neugierige Am Feierabend Danksagung an den Bach Halt! Wohin? Das Wandern