At reed-door blows the autumn wind;
How bleak the river inn.
The pitiable traveller
Looks up at evening sky
And softly starts to sing.
His long-departed mother's face,
A fair maid's once again,
Appears upon the moon;
His long-departed father's form,
Become a child's again,
Spreads 'cross the Milky Way
In glimpses through the willow-trees
The river, pale in the night,
And fields beyond, with rising smoke
The faint sound of a flute,
The traveller's breast does reach.
The valley-songs that ring from home
Are heard, cut short, and heard again
Their echoes from the sky combine
With groans from under earth
And blend in music deep
The mother of the traveller
Has lodged within him now
And to him in his youth, too, is
His father now descent.
And of the flute of hazy fields
One faint strain now remains
The traveller is singing still
Returning to his days of youth
Smiling, he is singing yet