Illness was the especial ground
Of my creative inclination;
I might recover by creation,
Creation made me once more sound.
11. ABROAD.
1.
From place to place thou’rt wandering still,
Thou scarcely knowest why;
A gentle word the wind doth fill,—
Thou look’st round wond’ringly.
My loved one, who was left behind,
Is calling softly now:
“Return, I love thee, O be kind,
My only joy art thou!”
But on, still on, no peace, no rest,
Thou never still mayst be;
What thou of yore didst love the best,
Thou ne’er again shalt see.
2.
Thou art to-day of sadder seeming
Than thou hast been for long before;
Mute tears upon thy cheeks are gleaming,
Thy sighs wax louder more and more.
Of thy far home long vanish’d is it
That thou art thinking, full of pain?
Wouldst thou not joyfully revisit
Thy much-loved fatherland again?
Art thinking now of her who sweetly
With tiny rage enchanted thee?
Vex’d by her oft, ye soon completely
Were reconciled, and laugh’d with glee.