My bosom with the beat of wings is troubled as the day is falling;
Within my bosom hungry birds are circling on the wind and calling.

My breast is blinded by the rain and buffeted by weary flying.
My bosom with the beat of wings is troubled, and with bitter crying.

I have cast the world,
and think me as nothing.
Yet I feel cold on snow-falling day,
And happy on flower day.

Over hills and mountains I am calling, calling,
Down the frozen valley unanswered echoes die;
In your far-off city where the winter night is falling,
Will you feel the darkness vibrant with my cry?

Sleep, my child, softly fall asleep, door and gate are bolted; by your cradle Good Fortune stands fanning with white wings .
Sleep, my child, you will understand when you grow older that Good Fortune was shedding tears at your cradle .

Whate'er our joy compelled, men's praise and blame fall hollow;
A voice upon the winds that drown it as they blow:
So fair a vision led, our thought was all to follow;
So strong a passion urged, our will was all to go.

In England there is a town called Leicester; in London there is a square by that name; in the square daily stand three sisters — the girls are known to everyone .
The youngest sells flowers, the middle one sells shoe laces, and late at night comes the eldest, who sells herself .
Both the younger ones look at the eldest without hate, for all the three girls despise the world and the town and the street .
And yet when the two young ones come to the nest they call a home — they moisten strings and flowers with tears that remain hidden .

Around thy tomb may clustering ivy grow,
And delicate blooms of purple meads abound,
Anacreon! May white milk in fountains flow,
And streams of wine well from the sacred ground,
So that if aught of joy reach shades below,
Some pleasure still thine ashes dear may know,
Immortal bard who soughtst life's sunny ways,
And filledst with love and song the measure of thy days.

What is it, that happened to my hair? A miracle took place over night .
'Twas a knot, blonde, heavy and hard — and lo today it is glittering, smooth and soft .
'Twas a coil, short, tight and wild — and now it's streaming wildly to my ankle .
And now like melted, glowing gold — the hair, that has rested on your breast .

There's a town in Lithuania on the shores of the Wilia — whichever way my eyes look, that town meets my gaze .
There's an alley there, and close by, a little house — methinks I would give away half my years for that little house .
And a child lives in the little house, whom I love as my life — all my years I would give away for this child .

Thee, too, O Cleionorides, the desire
Of thy native land has ruined in thy prime,
For thou didst rashly brave the stormy ire
Of treacherous winds and waves in wintertime.
Thus thy young charms were whelmed in the wild sea,
And quiring surges sang a dirge o'er thee.