«A fire, a sword, doing you awful harm? / No! These words are too loud and shabby! / A pain, well-known like to eyes — a palm, / Like to lips — a name of a dear baby.»
«Oh, table, on which I write! / I thank you with all my heart: / You’ve given a trunk to me — / With goal a table to be — But keep being the living trunk! — / With — over my head — your leaf, young, / With fresh bark and hot pitch’s tears, / With roots — till the bott»
«The poems mine, created early, so / That I hadn't known, I'm a poet, yet / And dropped, as drops from fountains' flows, / As sparkles from jets, As little imps, that suddenly braked through in / The dreamy sanctuary, where an incest roams, / The poems mine, about youth and ruin, / Unrea...»
«That was amidst the early spring, / The grass was slightly grown, / The heat was mild, and fast were springs, / And light through groves was shone. The shepherd’s horn, in early morn, / Was not yet singing loud, / The frugal fern, still in curls woven, / Was standing on wood’s groun...»