Little they know, in mine own fatherland,
Along the castled Rhine, or e’en amidst
The wild Harz mountains, or the sylvan glades
Deep in the Odenwald—they little know
Of what is solitude! In hours like this,
There, from a thousand nooks, the cottage-hearths
Pour forth red light through vine-hung lattices,
To guide the peasant, singing cheerily,
On the home-path; while round his lowly porch,
With eager eyes awaiting his return,