Classic Poem

When on my land I think by night,
The boon of sleep forsakes me quite;
My burning eyes I cannot close,
And many a tear for sorrow flows.

The years they come, the years they pass!
Twelve years have vanished since, alas!
I saw my mother, and amain,
The longing strengthens and the pain.

My longing grows to such a pitch,
The woman surely is a witch!
My thoughts on her for ever dwell.
May God preserve and guard her well!

The dear old woman loves me so!
How tremulous her hand and slow.
How deep the mother's heart is moved,
Her every letter plain has proved.

My mother's always on my mind,
Twelve weary years now lie behind,
Twelve weary years since last I pressed
My dear old mother to my breast.

My Germany will last for aye;
Sound to the core, it mocks decay;
Strong with its oaks and lindens, still
I'll find it waiting when I will.

Thirst for my country I could bear,
But that my mother tarries there;
Germany will not fade nor fly,
But ah! my mother, she might die.

Since last my Fatherland I trod,
So many lie beneath the sod,
That once I loved: I count the roll,
And bleed within my very soul.

I count and count—the numbers grow
Until my heart is big with woe;
Dead men seem waltzing on my breast—
Thank God! they stop and give me rest.

Thank God! at last my window's bright
With France's gay and cheerful light;
My wife comes in, like morning fair,
And smiles away my German care.