Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. A Harvest of German Verse. 1916.

By On the Death of My Child

Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff (1788–1857)

FROM far the clocks are ticking,

Deep midnight spreads its shade;

The lamp is burning dimly—

Your little bed is made.

Only the winds are wandering

Around the house and moan,

And by the window harking

We sit inside, alone.

It seems as if you gently

Must knock upon the door:

You’d lost your way, and weary

Had wandered home once more!

How pitiful our folly!

We are the ones who roam,

Lost in the dreadful darkness—

You long have found your home.