For ever asking, sighing—where?
The sunshine round seems dim and cold,
And flowers are pale, and life is old,
And words fall soulless on my ear—
Oh, I am still a stranger here!
Where art thou, land, sweet land, mine own!
Still sought for, long’d for, never known?
The land, the land of hope, of light,
Where glow my roses freshly bright,
And where my friends the green paths tread,