«I will grow out reaching you / As grass that wedges through the ground, / As bud that tends to be a bloom / In longing wish to get aroused. It bursts upon the morning view / When no one can scent and watch it, / But it already shines with dew / And dries should Sun come up and tou...»
«I bless you, forests, / Valleys, corn-fields, hills, waters, / I bless Freedom / And blue skies! / And my work I bless, / And this poor wallet, / And the steppe from end to end, / And light of sun, and darkness of night, / And the lonely footpath / Along which, a beggar, I travel, ...»
«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!»