The song of the people, my life-song I sang in foreign tones, in a foreign language. It strode toward the sky and rang weak and deafened by strange echoes.
The foreign country coldly and brutally sucked away my strength, in anguish I did not guard my treasure, the Veil remained unopened for me in the Sanctuary of Song.
With dew of anguish the wings are drenched, they are heavy and weary of the roaming path; others will unbolt the bars of the Sanctum in brighter days.

Among all the millions of human eyes the chosen pair in sweetness. Smooth hair, fragrant like soul — and above it the aureole of love.
A forehead, clear as a child's thought, and hands that never did caress me yet, and lips, where only truth is spoken and where every word is sweet song.
And in the two-and-twenty year old breast a heart that knew of no sin, and where the breath of the god of love daily writes anew his Tenth Commandment.
And in the blessed, deep heart a stream of pity for my sea of pain.

Sorrow engulfed me as the tender, green fir trees the snow with its heavy, thick prayer-shawl .
Barring that, nothing pains me ...

And they're marching, marching, marching. . . . Ever new armed hordes! Powers, masses, rows upon rows, with wild shouts — enthusiastically — they flow into battle to murder each other!
And pursuing them, red with shame, with gaping wounds coloring the dirty snow, the Christ torn from the cross — Jesus, the Jewish man, the most human man, who became a Gentile God — — —

From out the orchestra sighs a sound, which rings at first like a still, choked down whining, as if endless sorrow had been stored up and would tremble forth mutely upon your lips, and would breathe out from you without a sound.
And like a sinner who tells his sin, his heart beating and his limbs a-tremble, the music now plaintively speaks and the tune now is wafted more melancholy and fatigued and cries silently, repentantly now like a child.

Paperhanger, paperhanger — the ladder might have been longer. But the paperhanger who eats his bread on the ladder, with hands of paint and soot, hears not what is said below. Like a child in a cradle, with uplifted eyes, he rocks himself on the scaffolding — and doubtlessly people will pick him up after the misfortune shall have befallen him.

A page that Time now covers with his hand
A ruin in a desert over grown
With weeds — the all thats left us of the grand
Exploits of Alexander who alone
Conquered the whole world to his vain command
& tother all the pomp that doubt dwells on
As being the remnant of great Babylon

Before the lofty mountains in the west the day begins to bend; silent shadows fall toward the east across his way.
On the lofty mountains in the west Someone outstretches a far-reaching hand, conveys the sun, the day somewhere to the other side.
Quiet, my soul; be quiet — there will come an evening and you also will be led away somewhere by that hand.

The young sun is gleaming
Oer the young sprouting corn
& the Pewets are screaming
Oer the Mores in the morn

Joy treads on flowers but time devours
His summer like a blast
Who sets no foot but he killeth flowers
& a deserts left at last