«A frigid sun. From the parade, / The soldiers march away. / I cannot feel my worry’s weight / This January day. I recognize each branch in sight / And every silhouette. / In awe, I watch the crimson light / Drip through the frosty net. An off-white house stood here then, / Its porc...»
«Through villages and fields, he’d go, / Determined, asking passersby: / “Where has she gone, where is the glow / Of silver stars that are her eyes? The final days of spring are here, / They burn with dull and waning embers, / And in my dreams, her face appears / More often every nig...»
«The evening sky is gold and vast. / I’m soothed by April’s cool caress. / You’re late. Too many years have passed, — / I’m glad to see you, nonetheless. Come closer, sit here by my side, / Be gentle with me, treat me kind: / This old blue notebook — look inside — / I wrot...»
«Ik heul niet met de trouweloze, / met wie het land verscheuren liet. / Zijn lofspraak is mij uit den boze, / ik geef hem nooit een enkel lied. Toch, balling, voel ik medelijden, / als zat je vast of… de dood. / Te donker is je weg bij tijden, / te bitter smaakt je vreemde brood. Waar...»