For many a day, too sad for singing,
I grieved, but now the numbers throng;
Like sudden tears from anguish springing,
With sudden music comes the song.

Melodious measures plaintive weaving,
I sing of love and mightier woe,
Of hearts that bring each other grieving,
Yet break when they asunder go.

Often I hear, in fancy swaying,
The German oaks above my head;
Low words of welcome they are saying—
It is a dream—and they have fled.

Often I hear, in fancy singing,
The old, the German nightingales—
How sweet their songs about me ringing!—
It is a dream—the music fails.

Where are the roses that, like lovers,
Once gladdened me?—Their bloom is shed!—
Ah! sad and ghostly still there hovers
Within my soul the fragrance dead.