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Open up, open, but softly my dear,
So as to wake no one from sleep.
The brook hardly murmurs, the wind hardly shakes
A leaf on bush or hedge.
So, softly, my maiden, so that nothing stirs,
Just lay your hand softly on the doorlatch.
With steps as soft as the footsteps of elves,
Soft enough to hop over the flowers,
Fly lightly out into the moonlit night,
To steal to me in the garden.
The flowers are sleeping along the rippling brook,
Fragrant in sleep, only love is awake.
Sit, here it darkens mysteriously
Beneath the lindens,
The nightingale over our heads
Shall dream of our kisses,
And the rose, when it wakes in the morning,
Shall glow from the wondrous passions of the night.