A pastel of the 13th song in Franz Scubert's Winterreise.
From the street I hear the posthorn sound
How come then that you so blithely bound,
My heart?
The post brings no brief note for thee,
Why throb you then so waywardly
My heart?
Why, now the post comes from the town,
Where she did dwell, my love, my own,
My heart!
Dost wish that thu couldst see that far
And straitly ask them how things are,
My heart!