«Pull, my gray one, pull now! / Turning o’er the black clods, / Mother-earth will burnish / White the iron ploughshare. / / Blushing dawn, the fair one, / Lo! on the bright horizon; / From the waking woodland / Comes the sun in glory. / / Joyous rolls the ploughland! / ...»
«When from thy shame, degrading, dark, I drew / Thy fallen spirit out with words of flame; / And thou, with wringing hands, in anguish deep, / Didst curse the sin that compassed thee about; / When thou didst lash thy conscience, late and dull, / With story of thy past, confessing all ...»
«“Well, wife, how are you? How are you, my little ones? / Ah, for a good drink of ale! Such a frost!” — / “Lately the last drop you drained with the constable, / Hast thou forgotten it?” — “Well, nothing lost! / / I shall, poor sinner, get warm soon without it. / But first ...»
«When war’s wild blast affrights the land, / With each fresh prey by combat torn, / My heart bleeds not for wife, or friend, / Nor doth the fallen hero mourn. / / Alas! fond wife soon solace gains, / And best of friends their friend forget; / One only soul on earth remains / That...»