I am an earth-borne pilgrim
and, silent, go from house to house.
O, with a friendly gesture, pass
a loving gift out to me.
With candid, kindly glances,
with a warm grip of the hand,
you can gladden this sad heart
and free it from long oppression.
But do not count on recompense
or any service in return;
All I can do is scatter flowers
to cover your threshold in blue.
And give you a song to my zither,
with fervor sung and played,
perhaps to you idle, a trifle,
frivolous, dispensable.
To me so priceless I can’t do without it,
and valued the same by every pilgrim.
Though of course you could not know
what contents a man who lives on so little.
You take your joy in affluence,
feel it rewards you thousandfold
day after regimented day
swelling the treasure that you love.
But for me, as I toil onward
with my sturdy walking stick,
the threads in fortune’s pleasure-fabric
unravel one by one.
So I can only live on alms
from one moment to the next.
O let your kind act not reproach me,
but give you joy, and me good fortune.
I am an earth-borne pilgrim
and, silent, go from house to house.
O, with a friendly gesture, pass
a loving gift out to me.
