The groves take on their blossoms; the towns grow fair,
The meadows beautiful; the world revives;
All things urge on the hearts of the eager-minded
To the journey, the hearts of men who bethink them
To depart far over the flood-ways.
Yet the cuckoo sings a warning with its mournful notes,
The guardian of the summer bodes forth sorrow
Bitter in its breast-hoard. No man can know,
Who dwells in comfort, what they endure
Who lay their paths of exile far and wide!
So now my thoughts go roaming;
My spirit is with the sea-flood
Beyond the home of the whale; it hovers afar
Over the expanses of the world; it returns to me
Greedy and yearning. The solitary flier cries out;
It drives me irresistibly on the whale-road,
Over the wastes of the sea ...
... Therefore more ardent for me
Are the joys of the Lord than this dead life
Transitory on earth ...
... Blessed is he who lives humbly;
Mercy will come to him from the heavens;
And the Lord will establish him in courage,
For he has trusted well in His strength.