Revisiting Lake Constance

    Far from home you were, my friend,
    but now you move across the hills,
    subtly and in silent reverie, as though you
    were a will-o'-the-wisp above the rolling land.
    This is your place of birth; I feel your
    presence in the twilight, as boats upon lake  
    Constance glide toward the Swiss shore--but not you.
    See, here is Lindau: it's still your own.
    Surely, the harbor's lighthouse remembers you.
    Are you aware of moon-tipped waves, lapping,
    whispering at the shore, and alpine meadows
    fading into the growing night? Do you remember
    our walks through these woods? Now, once again,
    I must leave you and Bavaria. Where even
    death cannot subdue your desire to stay.