«A floweret, withered, odorless / In a book forgot I find; / And already strange reflection / Cometh into my mind. Bloomed, where? when? In what spring? / And how long ago? And plucked by whom? / Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? / And wherefore left thus here? Was it in ...»
«Fleurette sans parfum, flétrie / En ce vieux livre où nul ne lit, / Mon âme en te voyant s’emplit / D’une inquiète rêverie. Où t’ouvris-tu? sons quelle aurore? / Pour plus d’un jour? ou sans demain? / Une étrangère ou tendre main / Te mit-elle où tu meurs encore, En so...»
«If by life you were deceived, / Don't be dismal, don't be wild! / In the day of grief, be mild / Merry days will come, believe. Heart is living in tomorrow; / Present is dejected here; / In a moment, passes sorrow; / That which passes will be dear.»
«Should this life sometime deceive you, / Don't be sad or mad at it! / On a gloomy day, submit: / Trust — fair day will come, why grieve you? Heart lives in the future, so / What if gloom pervade the present? / All is fleeting, all will go; / What is gone will then be pleasant.»