Still do the southerly Bug waters know, Mother,

the wave whose blows wounded you so?

Still does the field with those windmills remenber

how gently your heart to its angels surrendered?

Can none of the aspens and none of

the willows allow you their solace, remove all your sorrows?

And does not the god with his blossoming wand

go up in the hills climbing hither and yon?

And can you bear, Mother, as once on a time, the gentle, the German, the pain-laden rhyme?