Abroad, 1

From place to place thou’rt wandering still,
Thou scarcely knowest why;
A gentle word the wind doth fill,--
Thou look’st round wond’ringly.

My loved one, who was left behind,
Is calling softly now:
“Return, I love thee, O be kind,
My only joy art thou!”

But on, still on, no peace, no rest,
Thou never still mayst be;
What thou of yore didst love the best,
Thou ne’er again shalt see.