Spring’s sweet odours from the meadow Fling their fragrance far and wide, And the tall trees cast the shadow Of the winter’s gloom aside; But for me no spring is bearing Gladness to my heart despairing; Comes no more with soothing power Kindly voice, or friendly hand, Song of home, or breath of flower, From my own dear native land. High in Heaven, circling nightly, Moon and stars shine overhead; Mighty rivers rush on brightly To the ocean’s distant bed; But for me, in sorrow pining, Star and stream in vain are shining, Foreign skies are drear above me, By a foreign shore I stand, Thinking of the friends that love me, In my own dear far‐off land.
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