Du Wacher Wald (The Wakeful Forest)

O sleepless forest midst the winter's spell, Bestowing spring's own trembling sentiment, On wet stalagmites, the reflection's bent Of green despair, with poison's bitter swell.

Where lead thy paths, I know not where they go— I have no path to take, no road to find, The entrance deep, the threshold set so slow, And—lost behind.