Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832)

AH, dost thou know the land where citron grows,

In sombre leaves the golden orange glows,

A gentle wind blows from the azure sky,

Calm myrtle, fragrant laurel bloom on high?

Ah, dost thou know it? There, oh there!

With thee, my dear one, how I long to fare!

Ah, dost thou know the house? The pillars white

Uphold the roof, the halls are glistening bright,

And marble statues seem to gaze at me:

Thou poorest child, what have they done to thee?

Ah, dost thou know it? There, oh there!

With thee, oh my protector, I would fare!

Ah, dost thou know the mountain’s cloudy ways?

The mule there seeks a path within the haze.

The broods of ancient dragons haunt the caves,

The rock breaks down and over it the waves.

Ah, dost thou know it? There, oh there!

Our way must go, my father, let us fare!