(Translation by Arthur P. Ferguson.)

Like to a leaf that is fallen and withered,
Tossed by the tempest from pole unto pole,
Thus roams the pilgrim abroad without purpose,
Roams without love, without country or soul.

Following anxiously treacherous fortune,
Fortune which e'en as he grasps at it flees,
Vain tho the hopes that his yearning is seeking
Yet does the pilgrim embark on the seas!
Ever impelled by invisible power,
Destined to roam from the East to the West,
Oft he remembers the faces of loved ones,
Dreams of the Day when he, too, was at rest.

Chance may assign him a tomb on the desert,
Grant him a final asylum of peace,
Soon by the world and his country forgotten;
God rest his soul when his wanderings cease!

Often the soorowful pilgrim is envied,
Circling the globe like a sea gull above;
Little, ah, little they know that the void
Saddens his soul by the absence of love.

Home may the pilgrim return in the future,
Back to his loved ones his footsteps he bends;
Naught will be find but the snow and the ruins,
Ashes of love and the tomb of his friends.

Pilgrim, begone! Thou must seek other pastures,
Stranger thou art in the land of thy birth,
Others may sing of their love while rejoicing;
Thou once again must retraverse the earth.

Pilgrim, begone! Nor return more hereafter,
Dry are the tears that a while for you ran,
Pilgrim, begone! and forget thy affliction,
Loud lauhgs the world at the sorrows of man.