From the German of Heinrich Heine
I Pass beneath thy dwelling
Each morning, and am fain,
My child, to see thee watching
Still at thy window-pane.
With black-brown eyes of wonder
Thou dost my going scan:
“Who art thou, and what ails thee,
Thou sorrowful foreign man?”
I am a German poet,
Among the Germans famed—
There, when they count their greatest,
My name is also named.
And, little one, what ails me
Ails Germans not a few;
Count they the sorest sorrows,
They name my sorrows too.