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| THOU, whom song was given, sing | |
| In the German poets’ wood! | |
| When all boughs with music ring, | |
| Life is sweet and pleasure good. | |
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| Nay, this art doth not belong | 5 |
| To a small and haughty band; | |
| Scattered are the seeds of song | |
| All about the German land. | |
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| Music set thy passions free | |
| From the heart’s confining cage! | 10 |
| Let thy love like murmurs be | |
| And like thunder-storms thy rage! | |
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| Singest thou not all thy days, | |
| Joy of youth should make thee sing. | |
| Nightingales pour forth their lays | 15 |
| In the blooming months of spring! | |
| |
| Though in books they hold not fast | |
| What the hour imparts to thee, | |
| Stray leaves to the breezes cast! | |
| Youth will seize them gratefully. | 20 |
| |
| Fare thou well, thou secret lore: | |
| Necromancy, alchemy! | |
| Formulas shall bind no more, | |
| And our art is poesy. | |
| |
| Names we deem but empty air, | 25 |
| Spirits we revere alone; | |
| Though we honour masters rare, | |
| Art is free—it is our own! | |
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| Not in haunts of marble chill, | |
| Temples drear where ancients trod,— | 30 |
| Nay, in oaks on woody hill | |
| Lives and moves the German God. | |
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