That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
How fares it with the happy dead?
For always roaming with a hungry heart.
A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.