You never came here; but I go
Here often and am met by you.
I will fight for my land,
I will work for my land,
Will it foster with love, in my faith, in my child.
Frida, I knew that thy life-years were counted.
If but before thee a lifting thought mounted,
Upward thy gaze turned all wistful to view it,
Rang our fathers' battle-cry.
Some poor man in need
To bless and to feed,
I bring at its worth,
This day of my birth,
A still procession goes
Amid the battle's booming,
Its arm the red cross shows;
Day's coming up now, joy's returned,
Sorrow's dark cloud-castles captured and burned;
Over the mountain-tops glowing
Evening is coming, the sun waxes red,
Radiant colors from heaven are beaming
Life's lustrous longings in infinite streaming;-
My boyish heart in thee confided,
For to the great by thee 't was guided.
As man, my waiting is for thee,-