A withered leaf which flies uncertainly And hurled about by furious hurricanes, So goes the traveler about the world, No guide, no hope, no fatherland, no love.
Anxiously he seeks a better fortune And fickle fortune always takes to flight; A shadow vain that mocks at his desire! For her the wanderer has plowed the seas.
Driven on by hands invisible, Wandering from land to weary land, Only memories to keep him company, Of loved ones and of bygone happier days.
A tomb perhaps upon the desert Calls him--refuge sweet of peace,-- Where, by his country and the world forgotten, Tranquil he may sleep who knew such pain.
And if they envy this sad traveler When he speeds so swiftly round the world, Ah, little do they know that in his soul Exist an aching void for want of love.
Should the wanderer turn back to his country, And to his home, it may be, make his way, He would find but snow and ruins everywhere, All love destroyed, and sepulchres,--no more.
On, then, traveler, pursue your journey, Stranger to the land where you were born. Letting others sing their songs of love And feel their joys, you fare on again.
And traveler, as you go, do not turn back, For none will shed a tear to say farewell, Go, pilgrim, try to drown your sorrow, Because the world but scoffs when strangers grieve.
