When thoughts of Germany haunt me at night, Sleep vanisheth from mine eyes; I cannot close my eyelids tight, And burning tears arise. O Mother, dear, thy visage pale Still lingers in my yearning; My heart, bewitched, recounts the tale Of exiled love and longing. The years, they hasten, come and go Since last I saw her face; Twelve years have passed in constant flow, And still I crave embrace. My aching and desire grow strong, The ancient one hath wrought Some olden spell my soul among— God keep her in His thought! She loves me with such gentle art, Though distance keeps us parted; Her trembling script reveals her heart— How sore the mother, wounded-hearted! O Mother, dear, thy visage pale Still lingers in my yearning; My heart, bewitched, recounts the tale Of exiled love and longing. My mother fills my silent mind— Twelve weary years have fled, Twelve long, long years I’ve not entwined Her form or touched her head. Germany endures through all its strife, A land both sound and grand; With oaks and linden trees in life, I’ll know my Fatherland. Yet Germany would trouble me Far less, were Mother gone; Though Fatherland lasts endlessly, The grave may seize the one. Since I departed from that home, So many there have died— Whom I have loved, accounted some, My soul has, bleeding, cried. O Mother, dear, thy visage pale Still lingers in my yearning; My heart, bewitched, recounts the tale Of exiled love and longing. I count the dead, my pain does swell With every memory riven; ’Tis as though silent corpses fell And pressed me, unforgiven— Yet, sudden, thanks to God, I see French morning through my pane; My gentle wife smiles radiantly And sweeps aside the pain. O Love, O Light, who draweth near, With dawn in thine appearing— Thou chasest far the German fear, And turnest grief to yearning.
