Look for the cruel hand of old winter,
Which is the visitor of your exciteful garden,
Before you pick all flowers and fit them
Into the glass with the early spring's odour.
As man, who gathered real contribution
Of all his work with a plenty of the crop,
You will be glad thus to return the self soul
With a lawful profit and tenfold.
You'll live on earth the ten times further,
Ten times repeated in your dear children,
And thus you'll have success in your last hour
Over the death, which you had winned.
You are too generously gifted by your fate,
Perfection that forever will be saved.