⁠Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;
And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,
⁠I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.
The woods of Lithuania I would tread
⁠Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;
Above the trembling marshland I would go
⁠Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head.

A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,
⁠A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,
And memories of youthful love I trace.
⁠Unto my childhood home I long to start,
And yet if all the leaves my name could cry
⁠She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.