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THE WANDERER.
The land, the land of hope, of light,
Where glow my roses freshly bright,
And where my friends, the green paths tread,
And where in beauty rise my dead;
The land that speaks my native speech,
The blessed land I may not reach!
I wander on in thoughtful care,
For ever asking, sighing—where?
And spirit-sounds come answering this
—"There, where thou art not, there is bliss!"
