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!