The cawing crows
Townwards on whirring pinions roam;
Soon come the snows--
Thrice happy now who hath a home!
Fast-rooted there,
Thou gazest backwards--oh, how long!
Thou fool, why dare
Ere winter come, this world of wrong?
This world--a gate
To myriad deserts dumb and hoar!
Who lost through fate
What thou hast lost, shall rest no more.
Now stand'st thou pale,
A frozen pilgrimage thy doom,
Like smoke whose trail
Cold and still colder skies consume.
Fly, bird, and screech,
Like desert-fowl, thy song apart!
Hide out of reach,
Fool! in grim ice thy bleeding heart.
Firmly let us plant our feet,
Ne'er can we give up this game--
From the distance what doth greet?
One death, one happiness, one fame.
The cawing crows
Townwards on whirring pinions roam:
Soon come the snows--
Woe unto him who hath no home!
_My Answer_
The man presumes--
Good Lord!--to think that I'd return
To those warm rooms
Where snug the German ovens burn
My friend, you see
'Tis but thy folly drives me far,--
Pity for _thee_
And all that German blockheads are!