The wanderer in the sawmill

Down yonder in the sawmill

I sat in good repose

and saw the wheels go spinning

and watched the water too.

I saw the shiny saw blade,

as if I had a dream,

which carved a lengthy furrow

into a fir tree trunk.

The fir tree as if living,

in saddest melody,

through all its trembling fibers

sang out these words for me:

At just the proper hour,

o wanderer! you come,

it's you for whom this wounding

invades my heart inside.

It's you, for whom soon will be,

when wanderings cut short,

these boards in earth's deep bosom,

a box for lengthy rest.

Four boards I then saw falling,

my heart was turned to stone,

one word I would have stammered,

the blade went 'round no more.