There is a spot on this fine earth
So wondrous to behold;
That once one thereon sets his foot
Its magic works unfold.
There the downcast heart can find
Surcease from woes and pains
Bukovina is the name
That echoes fond refrains.
In its silent greatness
Are nature’s splendors seen
Where ere the eye doth settle
Its fill it cannot glean.
Here rustle age-old beech trees
Extant from days of old
They have so much to tell us
As joy and grief unfold.
So proudly they glance downward
To woods and mountain bands;
As if they must defend it,
Their lovely Buchenland.
And who from here must wander
From where his cradle lay,
Must ask: “My Bukovina!
Will I see you
someday?”
