Dear maiden, as each morning
Thy house I saunter by,
It glads me when at the window
Thy winsome face I spy.

My face with a silent question
Thy brown eyes gravely scan:
" Who art thou, and what ails thee,
Thou strange sick-looking man? "

I am a German Poet,
In German land well known;
When the best names are spoken,
They also speak my own.

And what ails me, dear maiden,
Makes many a German groan;
When the worst woes are spoken,
They also speak my own.