With finer threads the verses' measure spin,
Here lengthen out, there shorten with more care,
I know it well, right often have I faltered,
Some of thy trochees sound a little lame;
But the old humour now, alas! is altered,
The mood which gave thee birth is not the same.
O rosy dreams of youth, when joy abounded,
Wherefore so soon by gloomy clouds surrounded!
Once more in my dear Schwarzwald I now rest,
And near me rush the healing waters out,