«With sharp axe the birch tree is wounded, / On the silvery bark the tears roll down. / Do not weep, birch tree, poor thing, do not grieve, / The wound is not mortal, thou wilt be healed by summer, / Thou shalt flaunt, adorned with leaves — / But a sick heart will not heal up its wound.»
«In a white mass whirls / The mist over the lake; / The noble-hearted youth with longing / And with sorrow is possessed. Not forever appears white / The misty mass; / It will disperse, / it will float away, / But sorrow nevermore!»
«When the yellowing cornfield is waving, / And the fresh forest murmurs to the wailing of the wind, / And the crimson berry hides itself in the garden / Under the sweet shade of the green leaflet; When, sprinkled with fragrant dew / In the purple evening or the golden hour of morning, / Fr...»
«Sleep, my pretty child, / Rock-a-bye, / The bright moon silently looks / Into thy cradle. / I shall tell fairy-tales, / I shall sing a song / And fall asleep, thou, having closed thine eyes, / Rock-a-bye. Over the stories ripples the ...»