And who but thou must be, in truth,
Obermann! with me here?
Thou master of my wandering youth,
But left this many a year!
Yes, I forget the world's work wrought,
Its warfare waged with pain:
An eremite with thee, in thought
Once more I slip my chain,—
And to thy mountain chalet come,
And lie beside its door,
And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum,
And thy sad, tranquil lore.
Again I feel the words inspire
Their mournful calm; serene,
Yet tinged with infinite desire
For all that might have been,—
The harmony from which man swerved
Made his life's rule once more;
The universal order served,
Earth happier than before.
—While thus I mused, night gently ran
Down over hill and wood.
Then, still and sudden, Obermann
On the grass near me stood.
Those pensive features well I knew,—
On my mind, years before,
Imaged so oft, imaged so true!
—A shepherd's garb he wore;
A mountain flower was in his hand,
