From Songs and Dances of Death by Modest Mussorgsky.

Unknown translator.

Magical, tender night, veiled in blue shadow,
Breathing forth perfumes of spring.
Yonder a sufferer leans from her window,
Hear what the night whispers low.
Sleep will not come to her eyes, bright with fever,
Life seems to call her to joy,
But under her window a figure is waiting:
Death sings a strange serenade:
"Maiden, poor captive to sorrow and suffering,
Wasted your beauty and youth:
I will be your true knight, although you do not know me,
I will come to your rescue now.
Come, lady, look at yourself!
See, your cheeks are like roses, your lips soft and red;
Lovely your visage, your tresses are gold and silky,
Your form is most fair.
Brightly gleam your eyes, so blue and so tender,
Bright as the stars in the heavens;
Ardent as midday suns, your breath that scorches...
You have bewitched me, O love,
You, too, must fall beneath the spell of my singing,
Did not your sighs call me here?
I, your knight, bring the greatest gift to you:
Now comes the hour of your bliss!
Fragile your form, and your kisses entrance me,
O let me clasp you in breathless embrace;
My love song shall bring you slumber...
Be still... you are mine!"

From the REC Music Foundation's Lied and Song text page, Public domain, to the best of my knowledge.