Far from me, O forest singer,
Pour thy music blithe and clear!
Sad my soul, my heart—a tempest;
I can give to songs no ear.

If thou canst, let not notes of mourning
Ring afar o'er hill and dale!
Then I too will take my zither,
Weeping, wailing I can wail!

I am wonted: Early mourned I
O'er my nation's fate forlorn;
Still mine eyes are full, my heart aches,
Wail! Together we will mourn.