The Wanderer (Der Wanderer)
I come from highlands down to shore,
the valleys steam, the oceans roar.
I wander silent, joyless here:
my sigh keeps asking, Where? Oh, where?
Their sun appears to me so cold,
their blossoms limp, their life so old;
and what they speak of, empty fare:
I am a stranger everywhere.
Where are you, land, beloved home?
Imagined, sought, but never known!
The land, the land, whence hope does flow,
the land where all my roses grow,
where friends shall never meet in vain,
where all my dead shall rise again,
the land that speaks my language true:
Oh land, where are you?...
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