But she was fond of tales I told
That made me rich, but - alas - not with gold;
But You, oh Lord, You know!
If only I were rich, is still my heavenly prayer.
My little girl of seven is now a lady fair;
She is so sweet, so clever and so good;
My heart's fair tale she never understood.
If only, as of yore, she still for me would care,
But I am poor and silent; I confess I do not dare.
It is Your will, oh Lord!
If only I were rich, in peace and comfort rest,
I would my sorrow to this paper never trust.
You, whom I love, if still you understand
then read this poem from my youth's far land,
Though best it be you never know my pain.
I am still poor, my future dark and vain,
But may, O Lord, You bless her!
Yes, a man in love writes many a poem that a man in his right mind does
not print. A lieutenant, his love and his lack of money - there's an eternal
triangle for you, a broken life that can never be squared. The lieutenant
knew this all too well. He leaned his head against the window, and sighed,
and said:
“The poor watchman down there in the street is a far happier man than I.
He does not know what I call want. He has a home. He has a wife and
children who weep with him in his sorrows and share in his joy. Ah, I
would be happier if I could trade places with him, for he is much more
fortunate than I am.”
