I SHALL NOT wait and watch in the house for thy coming, but will go forth into the open, for the petals fall from the drooping flowers and time flies to its end. The wind is up, the water is ruffled. Be swift and cut the rope, let the boat drift in the midstream, for the time flies to its end. The night is pale, the lonely moon is playing its ferry of dreams across the sky. The path is unknown, but I heed it not. My mind has the wings of freedom and I know that I shall cross the dark. Let me but start on my journey, for the time flies to its end.
THE DARKLY veiled June has come once again redolent of the rain-soaked earth; my heart that had grown weary and old answers to the call of the marching clouds, overcome with the sudden rush of life's turbulence. Shadows sweep over the young grass on the vast lonely meadows; and my blood surges up with the cry: It has come, has come to my eyes, to my breast, to my voice that sings in gladness.
