To*** Upon the Alps in Splügen

by Adam Mickiewicz

So never may I bid thee now farewell:
Thou follow’st me through every mount and dell,
I see thee on the Alpine glaciers tall,
I hear thy voice in every waterfall;
My heart throbs heav’ly when I turn around
To see thee but I’m scared to hear a sound.
Ungrateful thou! While in these mountains high,
I lose my way beneath the somber sky,
Or, weary so, step down a mountain slope,
I raise my head toward the skies and hope
To see the Northern Star that pilots me,
To find Lithuania, thy house and thee.
Ungrateful thou! Perhaps today a queen
In a company that I have never seen.
Perhaps enchanted by new loves, in play,
Of our passed love thou speak’st with them today.
Say, art thou happy at this time at all
When servants bow at thy, Milady’s, call;
When pleasure lulls thee now to sleep at night,
Or when thou playest in the morning light?
And realy holdest thou no memory,
Which now and then could somehow trouble thee?
Wouldst thou be happier if thou shared’st thy life
With a merry traveler and wast his wife?
My dear, we would be hiking all day long,
Thy hardships I would sweeten with a song;
I’d be the first in every rivulet
To find some little stones therein and let
Thy feet, untouched by water, feel the sand.
I would caress thee, Dearest, kiss thy hand.
And we would find some lovely mountain hut,
I’d let thee off my back, the door I’d shut;
We’d sit by a fire and thou with elfin charm
Wouldst fall asleep and wake upon my arm.