A word reposes in my heart, it is new and free and pious; I cannot utter it, I am still mute for it .
Someone else will say it in many years to come. Yet the word is mine — I have only been mute .

In the most distant lands we are scattered — each part a link in the long chain .
By all the rivers, not of Babylon alone, we have been sitting in search of a home .
Now the whole world is dear to us. There is pitched at the remotest shores a tent of ours .
Now the Vistula and the Rhine are dear to us, and the wide Dnieper also charms us with its murmur .
And the free Hudson beckons us with friendship. Here by its shores we at last get real rest .
Whatever song we hear, its tune seems familiar, whatever river purls, it awakens a yearning .

The eyes red, the lips blue, not a drop of blood in the cheek. The foreheads pale, and feverish — three girls sit and sew.
The needle flashes, the linen — snowy; and one thinks: I sew and sew, I sew by day, I sew by night — no bridal dress have I made for myself! What is the use of my sewing?
I neither sleep nor eat ... I would donate to Meir The Miracle Man — Perhaps he would stand me in good stead. Even a widower, an old Jew with a bevy of children.

Behind the hill roads are leading endlessly far away; behind the hill dark evenings alternate with bright days.
Behind the hill all eyes are turned in constant expectance; from behind the hill some Radiant One has to arrive to us in the valley below.

Lilies, white lilies are dying on the pond; for the last time the breeze blows over them, the ray of light glows for them a final time and for the last time the evening dew moistens them.
Unruffled waves hasten to greet their woe, butterflies come to weep over them and the flower-souls gather round and all kneel tremblingly and piously.
Colors in the west curb the playing, somewhere a shadow quietly sighs, and the wan grass also sighs. — — Lilies, white lilies are dying on the pond.

Like a child engrossed in play, you sit, young mother, by the cradle, and your mock-serious face looks so childishly charming, childishly charming the face and childlike blue the eyes .
With smile-wreathed lips sleeps the child in the cradle; it is also time for the little lovely mother to retire ... Yet the little, lovely mother with her head nods: nay ...

Lord God! Thou art alone, I am alone, we are both alone. Flares forth Thy loneliness — a sun for the earth; but mine has burdened my shoulders, like a stone it falls before my feet .
Lord God! Thou comest from Thyself, I come from Thee, we come both from Thee. To Thee eternity is only a day — I carry my days but like borrowed goods — daily awaiting Thy call .
Lord God! Thou art in Thyself, I am in Thee — we are both in Thee. With my misery and anxiety I remain in Thee, I follow Thee, like a slave follows his master — until Thou summonest me .

Those on the top say they know you, Earth — they are liars.
You are my father, and the silence I work in is my mother.
Only the son knows his father.
We are alike — sweaty, inarticulate of soul, bending under thick knowledge.
I drink and shout with my brothers when above you —
Like most children we soon forget the parents of our souls.
But you avidly grip us again — we pay for the little noise of life we steal.

Where Milne wrote Pooh
Jones drowned.
Jones was a Stone

Houses are swaying and swimming light-grey, with damp gardens, silvery lighted streets; and people on thresholds of doors are bowing, smiling, fading, appearing and vanishing through the rainbow of tears .
A child is sitting at the window. In the moonlight the hair flows like dark rain. Stubbornly and clearly the eyes seek, as through a forest, my own, faraway figure .
O, why dost thou tremble, child, when I come toward thee?