Why dost thou want to sing
When thou hast no song, my heart?
If there be in thee a hidden spring,
Wherefore will no word start?
On its way thou hearest no song,
Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
The years of thy life are growing long--
Art still the heart of a boy?--
Father, I am thy child!
My heart is in thy hand!
Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
Of a song in thy high land.
It will answer--but how, my God,
Thou knowest; I cannot say:
It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod--
Thy lark to meet thy day!