Concentration proves unattainable
Without care
For weather or worse
Tirelessly, I prepare my argument.

Somber lie the hills
o'er which my Sally flies.
Darkness clothes the mills,
and creeps by every corner.
Crimson fills the springs,
where once children drank --
like them, I choke
and struggle to speak,
and I sit in the company
of pleasant nature.
I watch bitterly
as the trees grow:
they know nothing of my sorrow,
nor how I have toiled.

Taunting, their gaze peers
down at me from above,
and the crest of every wave,
lit by the dawn.
Oh, if I could be with her:
my pride, my love!
Contently I would
spend my days abroad.
But since she is lost, I fear,
and the cruel wind
kisses me in her stead,
I wish at least to return
to my native land, so dear,
where among those quiet meadows
I would rest my head.