Let my sad imagination ponder
Over Kunnersdorf,[1] that Place of Skulls!
Dost thou re-illume these wastes, O Summer?
Hast thou raised anew thy trampled bowers?
Will the wild bee come again a hummer
Here, within the houses of thy flowers?
Can thy sunbeams light, thy mild rains water
This Aceldema, this human soil,
Since that dark day of redundant slaughter
When the blood of men flowed here like oil?