The Call of the Wandering Jew

Nathan Spielvogel

1913

Hot lava flows in my veins to-night,

My nerves are jangling mad,

The Joy of Life is a tinsel gaud,

The sweetest songs sound sad.

I feel the drag of the Wanderlust,

I see the ghosts stream by,

I hear the call of old Ahaswer

And I must go or die.

A horde of ghosts from the grave tramp past,

And each one turns and stares,

And each…

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