IF again thou mourning weepest,
⁠Wounded heart of mine,
That a maiden’s soul disowneth
⁠Worth and merits thine,
Thee I’ll comfort, as a father
⁠Comforteth his child,
When th’ enchanting flow’ret’s ravish’d
⁠By the tempest wild.

Chides the father—‘Weep no longer,
⁠Other flowers be thine,
For a single flower, my dearest,
⁠Doth the sun not shine.
In the groves and meadows thousands
⁠Find we day by day,
Only wait, dear child, a little
⁠For approaching May.’

But, my heart, in thy recesses
⁠Deep the knowledge lies,
That I scarce thy grief can comfort,
⁠As a child that cries.
Weep then on, true heart and sorrow,
⁠Weep, ye eyes, in woe;
Tears for love—my blood must only
⁠For my country flow!