(To A Young Girl) Say Whither, Whither, Pretty One? The Hour Is Young At Present! How Hushed Is All The World Around! Ere Dawn--The Streets Hold Not A Sound. O Whither, Whither Do You Run? Sleep At This Hour Is Pleasant. The Flowers Are Dreaming, Dewy-Wet; The Bird-Nests They Are Silent Yet. Where To, Before The Rising Sun The World Her Light Is Giving? "To Earn A Living." O Whither, Whither, Pretty Child, So Late At Night A-Strolling? Alone--With Darkness Round You Curled? All Rests!--And Sleeping Is The World. Where Drives You Now The Wind So Wild? The Midnight Bells Are Tolling! Day Hath Not Warmed You With Her Light; What Aid Can'St Hope Then From The Night? Night'S Deaf And Blind!--Oh Whither, Child, Light-Minded Fancies Weaving? "To Earn A Living."