«My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning, / Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning, / A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge / Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge / And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing. / ...»
«Dear doting sweetheart of my childhood, / Companion of my austere fate! / In the lone house deep in the wild wood / How patiently for me you wait. / Alone beside your window sitting / You wait for me and blame the clock, / While, in your wrinkled hands, your knitting / Fitfully falters...»
«Rose-maiden, no, I do not quarrel / With these dear chains, they don't demean; / The nightingale embushed in laurel, / The sylvan singers' feathered queen, / Does she not bear the same sweet plight, / Near the proud rose's beauty dwelling, / And with her tender anthems thrilling / ...»
«I love you, though I rage at it, / Though it is shame and toil misguided, / And to my folly self-derided / Here at your feet I will admit! / It ill befits my years, my station, / Good sense has long been overdue! / And yet, by every indication / Love's plague has stricken me anew: / ...»