Charles Wharton Stork, trans.

From the Danish of Ludwig Holstein

Father, where do the wild swans go?

Far, far. Ceaselessly winging,

Their necks outstraining, they haste them singing

Far, far. Whither, none may know.

Father, where do the cloud-ships go?

Far, far. The winds pursue them,

And over the shining heaven strew them

Far, far. Whither, none may know.

Father, where do the days all go?

Far, far. Each runs and races—

No one can catch them, they leave no traces—

Far, far. Whither, none may know.

But father, we—where do we then go?

Far, far. Our dim eyes veiling,

With bended head we go sighing, wailing

Far, far. Whither, none may know.