What hopes into the Hebrew can it give?
To him what comfort summer or the May?
A mendicant who has no place to rest
With whom all men make sport—each day, each week, each hour,
Oh, is it meet for him to think of joys,
Of gardens with their balm, of tree or flower?
And if the Jew at times break forth in song,
Does his song seem to breathe of mirth to you?
I, in his music hear but “Roam and Roam!”
In every note I recognize the Jew.