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I dreamed of our village,

Our Mazovian sands,

And under the pear tree, sweet and pretty,

Bathed in the glow of her luminous beauty, 

There, my dear Mary stood.

I dreamed of our little farmhouse.

My mother at the spindle,

Bent over, spinning wool.

All alone was she, forsaken,

Old in years, her hair dove-white.

I dreamed of our meadows,

Fields adorned with heavy hands of wheat.

In the distance, singing larks

Heralded in trembling voices

Great joy: “Peace on earth!”

I dreamed of Vistula’s waters,

Abundantly flowing with schools of fish.

Our ancient Slavic stronghold,

Drenched in the sun’s golden rays—

Splendid and unyielding!

I dreamed of the dark wilderness,

A carpet of moss beneath her feet—

A wilderness silent, mysterious,

Cloaked in an eternal snow;

I dreamed of my Tatra mountains.