Song cycle, to poems by Eichendorff, Op. 39: No. 6, A beautiful foreign land

The treetops are starting to rustle As if gods of long ago Still were somehow haunting these ruins Lost souls with nowhere to go. This grove made of ancient myrtles Is filled with columns of light But what on earth are you whispering You strange fantastical night...? The stars are glistening like fireflies They smile on me from above And all creation is singing With the promise of joy and love.