KIND art thou, and these faces all are kind,
But in my dreams
I see them not: I see the Neckar wind,
I see the beams
Of morning dance before my childhood's eye
On that far sky.

Dost thou remember how each gray stone face
Peeped from the bed
Of ivy, nature-woven round that place?
No longer dead,
In some strange, magic hour they seemed to stir
For their child worshiper.

Dost thou remember where the ripening vine
O'ertops the wall?
The roadside rest, the flask of golden wine,
The Alpine call?
Alas! thou canst not; hasten then with me
Back through the darkening sea!

Forever in my dreams must I return!
The kine at rest
I see, afar, where Alpine roses burn;
And I am blest
While lingering beside them!
Wake me not, O darling, wake me not!