On a freshly-whittled walking stick

On a freshly-whittled walking stick,

When I go out early

Through the woods,

Up and down the hills,

Then, as the bird in a bower

Sings and bestirs itself,

Or as the golden grape

Senses blissful spirits

In the sun's first rays,

So the dear old Adam in me

Feels Spring- and Autumn-fever,

Made stout of heart by God,

Never forfeited -

The bliss of the first ones in Paradise.

Well, you are not so bad, old

Adam, as the rigid teachers say;

Still you always love and praise,

Always sing and glorify -

As if on ever-new Creation days -

Your beloved Maker and Sustainer.

Would that this be given me,

And my whole life

Could pass in the light sweat

Of such a morning journey!