Here is the text in the original languages (Danish and French) as it is sung in the work. The poem is written by H.R.H. The Prince Consort of Denmark (The Danish parts are from a re-creation by the Danish writer Per Aage Brandt):
Soufflent les vents de plaine,
pourvu que les amants s'aiment!
Egene vrider sig, bladløse, nøgne,
i grenene hænger min flængede sjæl.
Jeg hører din stemmes forrevne
"Ce n'est plus toi que j'aime",
den skærer sig ind i min pine,
og stormene raser natsorte som løgne.
Var jeg stærk som en eg?
Var dit hjerte en klippe?
Egen faldt fra sin klippe, afmægtig, forvreden,
forpint, uden liv, under vindenes knive -
Hvorfra kommer de, hvad vil de os, er de gribbe,
skæbnens vingede bødler - og kunne vi slippe?
Elskende, elsk, hvis I kan!
Nu flakker jeg hjemløs omkring
på veje så golde, som lejet blev koldt.
Og egenes hvinende klagen forkynder,
at kærlighed visner og dør i min hånd.
Les sanglots de ces chênes
menacés de mort
sous le vent du Nord
qui râle obstinement
et comme moi.
Elskende, elsk, hvis I kan!
Souffle un vent de peine,
pourvu que les amants s'aiment!
Tremblent sous ce rugueux froid
au monde vont aller confier
et la couche des amants.
Pourvu que les amants s'aiment!
---
...and here is my own quick 'n dirty direct English translation (Please excuse any errors in the translation, I must admit I'm not very strong in French 
):
The wind of the plains are crying
when the lovers love!
The oak-trees wrenches, naked without leaves
My flensed soul is hanging in the braches
I hear your torn voice:
"I do not love you anymore"
It cuts itself in to my pain
And the storms are raging, pitch-black like lies
Was I strong like an oak?
Was your heart a rock?
The oak fell from its rock, powerless, wrenched,
tortured, without life, slashed by the knifes of the wind
Where are they coming from, what do they want, are they vultures?
The winged executioners of fate - and could we escape?
Lovers, love, while you can!
Now, I drift around, homeless
On roads as barren as the bed became cold
And the whispering moaning of the oaks proclaims
that love withers and die in my hand
The cries of the oaks
threatened by death
under the north wind
which hisses stubbornly
and like I
Lovers, love, if you can!
The wind of pain is blowing
When the lovers love!
Trembling from the icy cold
the world can testify
that love has left
the bed of the lovers
When the lovers love!