«When at night I wait for her to come, / Life, it seems, hangs by a single strand. / What are glory, youth, freedom, in comparison / With the dear welcome guest, a flute in hand? She enters now. Pushing her veil aside, / She stares through me with her attentiveness. / I question her: "And ...»
«Your work that my inward sight still comes, / Fruit of your graced labours: / The gold of always-autumnal limes, / The blue of today-created water — Simply to think of it, the faintest drowse / Already has led me into your parks / Where, fearful of everything turning, I lose / Conscio...»
«I drink to our demolished house, / To all this wickedness, / To you, our loneliness together, / I raise my glass — And to the dead-cold eyes, / The lie that has betrayed us, / The coarse, brutal world, the fact / That God has not saved us.»
«Dust smells of a sun-ray, / Girls’ breaths, — violets hold, / Freedom clings to the wild honey, / But there’s no smell to gold. The mignonette smells of water, / Apple-tang clings to love, / But we were always taught that / Blood smells only of blood. So it was no use the governo...»