Classic Poem

DEPARTURE FROM PARIS

Paris, adieu, beloved town,
To-day I turn a rover,
And leave you happy here behind,
With pleasure brimming over.

My German heart has fallen sick —
Within my breast I feel it —
And in the North the doctor dwells
Whose skill alone can heal it.

He's famous for his wondrous cures,
To health he'll soon restore me,
But drastic are his bitter drugs;
I shrink from what's before me.

Farewell, ye merry folk of France,
My brothers happy-hearted;
Though foolish yearning drives me forth,
We shall not long be parted.

Imagine! For the smell of peat
I long with real anguish;
For turnips, Lüneburger cakes
And sauer-kraut I languish.

I yearn for watchmen, councillors,
Black bread in all its crudeness,
For tobacco, parsons' daughters blonde —
I even yearn for rudeness.

I long to see my mother, too; —
I frankly own I'm human —
'Tis fully thirteen years since last
I saw the dear old woman.

Farewell, my wife, my lovely wife;
I must perplex and grieve you —
So close I fold you to my heart,
Yet, none the less, I leave you.

With this terrible thirst that drives me far
From bliss, I dare not trifle;
I feel I must fill my lungs once more
With German air, or stifle.

In convulsive throes this pain would end —
This wild impetuous burning —
My foot, to tread on German ground,
Quivers and shakes with yearning.

By the end of the year, completely cured
Of this malady most unpleasant,
I'll be back, I promise, in time to buy
The loveliest New Year's present.