Ruthless the vacuity you have made of my abode,

Dear Orsula mine, with this disappearing of yours.

We are plenty, and there is as nobody around:

Such a wealth has departed with a baby soul one.

As you ever and again spoke, so you also sang;

All corners in the house, you always merrily ran;

Never did you let your mother feel worry or trouble,

Or father waste his head in excess mentating pother;

This or that one, together gracefully embracing,

With that smile witty on your face, entertaining.

Now all is silence, a home become empties profound,

There is no littlun play, there is no laugh to resound,

Every corner, man is breathing a piercing sad,

In its sweetling child seeks comfort in vain, the pained heart.