Old Jeff Davis tore down the govermint,
Tore down the govermint, tore down the govermint;
But Old Abe Lincoln built up a better one,
Built up a better one, built up a better one.
Old Abe Lincoln built up a better one,
That'll stand for many a long day.

I have whetted the word, whetted and polished it. Now it sparkles like silver — but it is whittled .
With my blood and marrow I caused it to grow. Now it has overgrown me .
I fling it from me then, as fakirs in juggling toss lethargic reptiles far away from themselves .
Like a boomerang hurled by the hand of a negro — it is howling back wherever I turn .

The funeral pile of my Indian summer is burning out in drops of gold and circles of smoke. Mutely and piously I bury now with my own hand the last star of coal beneath the ashes .
And night and villages. On moon-wrought flutes the grasshoppers play gloom into my soul. Upon white grass, at bluish fences — the pumpkins, yellow as the moon .
And trees — blue wax — in cool rays of void, like straight candles, reverential before God. And silence sharply marks the falling of the faded leaf, and sharper yet the unrest of my step .

Before my dreamy window-panes rise high and higher snow-thatched roofs, high in silvery caps .
Before my dreamy window-panes above the high roofs, rise higher, higher thin smoke curls like silver doves .

The grief in another's eyes overpowers me like a gentle master. And willingly I wear another's fetters, and willingly I bear another's grief .
Yet so much sorrow comes to subdue the black crown of my head! So I tear away link after link and cast off all the fetters .
I am a weary apple-tree, rooted in soil up to the hip. And as the tree casts apples — so I cast songs like apples around me .

G iles Jolt , as sleeping in his Cart he lay,
Some pils'ring Villains stole his Team away.
Giles wakes and cries — — " What's here, a dickin! what!
" Why how now. — Am I Giles? or am I not?
" If he , — I've lost six Geldings, to my Smart;
" If not , — odds buddikins, I've found a Cart.

In her little hands she is holding an open book, her little head is bent backward in sadness. The sun dies at the window, and casts a red glow upon the book .
The older sister has left for an unknown destination; nobody knows why and wherefore. She was there in the house that evening as ever, yet at night she had gone away forever .
Later mother was wringing her hands, covered her old face with a kerchief, sticking burning candles into the candle-sticks, and crying tearfully .

God has not yet His rest in my heart, as a wanderer He comes to me. My prayer does not cling to Him — very often He omits my door .
Therefore I am so much afraid of loneliness, afraid to be unclean like a murderer's heart; my hair — in fear of early greying — fade, like grass caught by the frost .
I envy the cattle in the field and the shepherd who guards them: Often lightning has enlightened them and hail has fallen upon their head .

White as my mother's name, chaste as the moon, fresh as spring showers I come to you .
I convey the mildly veiled distance of slender words, I carry the murmurring garment of green fields .
The queen of the fairy tale walks along with me, the white kid nibbles at the grass in my hand .
My peacock has spread its golden wings; the night lies under a bolt, the terror lies enchained .

The holy Baal-Shem-Tov walked through the fields, in early dusk he walked through the cold fields.