The threshold of eternity, and none,
But by foregoing liberty or life,
Cross the forbidden waters. Only now
A trailer of the Lithuanian hop,
Drawn by allurement of the Prussian poplar,
Stretches its fearless arms, as formerly,
Leaping the river, with luxuriant wreaths,
Twines with its loved one on a foreign shore.
The nightingales from Kowno’s groves of oak
Still with their brethren of Zapuszczan mount,