I am frightened when I see you
Sitting there in clouds enveloped
As in times of fog the Eggberg.
And I'm sorry for the gilded
Picture-frames hung on the walls there,
And the pretty snow-white curtains.
Don't you hear their low complaining,
How the smoke from your red-clay pipe
Makes them faded, gray and rusty?
'Tis most truly a fine country,