Song

O swallow! who fliest far and high, Halt in thy hast and flight And carry off my grief and sigh Upon thy wings, so light!

—I cannot, for beneath such weight To the deep sea I’d fall; Trust to the eagle thy sad fate, His wing’s strongest of all.—

O eagle! carry off my woe To thy waste’s stony drift. —I cannot, for I could not go, My wings I could not lift.

My broken wing alone I’d find In looking to the sky; Trust thy woe to strong western wind, It can take it and fly—

O wind! that blowest flying past The lands of all the earth; What thou tak’st thou does carry fast; Take sorrow from my hearth!

—I cannot. Lo! I hasten now, For far lands do I leave.— Oh, who will take off, if not thou, My woe and bring relief?

—I’ll take it with me on my way.— What? Thou, O woman frail? Does not on thine own heart grief prey, Doest thou not sigh and wail?

—I have grief of mine own, thy woe Though I shall carry yet, And should they break me as I go, I shall not cry or fret.