Verse > Anthologies > Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans. > A Harvest of German Verse
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Margarete Münsterberg, ed., trans.  A Harvest of German Verse.  1916.
 
On the Death of My Child
By Joseph Freiherr von Eichendorff (1788–1857)
 
FROM far the clocks are ticking,
Deep midnight spreads its shade;
The lamp is burning dimly—
Your little bed is made.
 
Only the winds are wandering        5
Around the house and moan,
And by the window harking
We sit inside, alone.
 
It seems as if you gently
Must knock upon the door:        10
You’d lost your way, and weary
Had wandered home once more!
 
How pitiful our folly!
We are the ones who roam,
Lost in the dreadful darkness—        15
You long have found your home.
 
 
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