«Snowfellow, tallfellow, bright beacon, / what has become of your mother? / Snowfellow, tallfellow, bright beacon, / Where have they buried your mother?»
«You are my song, my dark-blue dream / of doves, of winter's drowsy drone, / and sleighs that slow and golden go / through gray-blue shadows on the snow.»
«Languor-wing flies in the middle of fable, / made breathless by a girl's charms; / tangled in nets of golden wool / Let me die here in your arms.»
«His sweet lids close and shut away / the moan of my young moon song. / My darling, my dying, my light, my sight, / my night my whole day long.»