(_Hausfreund_, p. 44)
Tief begrāben in der Finster,
Weit vun Luft un' Licht,--
Sehst du dort dem blinden Worem,
Wie er kriecht?
In der Erd' is' er gebōren,
Un' beschert
Is' ihm, ēbig, ēbig kriechen
In der Erd'....
Thousands of streams, thousands of rivers have passed over them, sand
has covered them, storms have torn them,
Yet the old, old leaves live on ... though they be yellow, darkened,
torn,--a hole here, a spot there;
Here a bit charred, there a line obliterated, and the whole has the
appearance of an old cemetery....
What of that? Yes, indeed, that is a burial-ground where lies buried in
the grave all that which we shall never have again....
And I, old, sick orphan, full of sorrow, of the awe of death, stand with
bent head, stand and weep at the grave of our fathers....