Schmidt von Lübeck:
The Wanderer
From highlands I come down to shore,
the valleys steam, the oceans roar.
I wander silent, joyless there:
my sigh keeps asking, Where? Oh, where?
Their sun appears to me so cold,
their blossoms limp, their life so old;
and what they speak of, empty fare:
I am a stranger everywhere.
Where are you, land, beloved home?
Desir'd, imagined, never known!
The land, the land, whence hope does flow,
the land where all my roses grow,
where never friends will walk in vain,
where all my dead shall rise again,
the land that speaks my language true:
Oh land, where are you?...
I wander silent, joyless here,
my sigh keeps asking, Where? Oh where?
and specters answer my distress:
"Where you are not, there's happiness."