Theodor Storm (1817–1888)

THE SHORE is gray, the sea is gray,

And there the city stands;

The mists upon the houses weigh,

And through the calm the ocean gray

Roars dully on the strands.

There are no rustling woods, there fly

No singing birds in May;

The wild goose with its callous cry

Alone on autumn nights soars by;

The wind-blown grasses sway.

And yet my whole heart clings to thee,

Gray city by the sea;

And e’er the spell of youth for me

Doth smiling rest on thee, on thee

Gray city by the sea.