When I before thy dwelling,
In early morning pace,
How gladly in the window
I see thy gentle face.
Thy brown-black eyes in pity,
Mine own eyes, wistful scan,
"Who art thou, and what lack'st thou,
Thou strange, unhappy man?"
I am a German poet,
Of goodly German fame,
When their best names are spoken,
Mine own they are sure to name.
And what I lack, sweet maiden,
Most Germans lack the same.
When men name sharpest sorrows,
Mine own they are sure to name.