Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe’er thou art,
       Condemned to cast about,
     All shipwreck in thy own weak heart,
       For comfort from without!

     A fever in these pages burns
       Beneath the calm they feign;
     A wounded human spirit turns,
       Here, on its bed of pain.

     Yes, though the virgin mountain-air
       Fresh through these pages blows;
     Though to these leaves the glaciers spare
       The soul of their mute snows;

     Though here a mountain-murmur swells
       Of many a dark-boughed pine;
     Though, as you read, you hear the bells
       Of the high-pasturing kine—­

     Yet, through the hum of torrent lone,
       And brooding mountain-bee,
     There sobs I know not what ground-tone
       Of human agony.

     Is it for this, because the sound
       Is fraught too deep with pain,
     That, Obermann! the world around
       So little loves thy strain?

* * * * *

     And then we turn, thou sadder sage,
       To thee! we feel thy spell! 
     —­The hopeless tangle of our age,
       Thou too hast scanned it well!

     Immovable thou sittest, still
       As death, composed to bear! 
     Thy head is clear, thy feeling chill,
       And icy thy despair.

* * * * *

     He who hath watched, not shared, the strife,
       Knows how the day hath gone. 
     He only lives with the world’s life
       Who hath renounced his own.

     To thee we come, then!  Clouds are rolled
       Where thou, O seer! art set;
     Thy realm of thought is drear and cold—­
       The world is colder yet!

     And thou hast pleasures, too, to share
       With those who come to thee—­
     Balms floating on thy mountain-air,
       And healing sights to see.

     How often, where the slopes are green
       On Jaman, hast thou sate
     By some high chalet-door, and seen
       The summer-day grow late;

     And darkness steal o’er the wet grass
       With the pale crocus starr’d,
     And reach that glimmering sheet of glass
       Beneath the piny sward,

     Lake Leman’s waters, far below! 
       And watched the rosy light
     Fade from the distant peaks of snow;
       And on the air of night

     Heard accents of the eternal tongue
       Through the pine branches play—­
     Listened and felt thyself grow young! 
       Listened, and wept—­Away!

     Away the dreams that but deceive! 
       And thou, sad guide, adieu! 
     I go, fate drives me; but I leave
       Half of my life with you.

     We, in some unknown Power’s employ,
       Move on a rigorous line;
     Can neither, when we will, enjoy,
       Nor, when we will, resign.