Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent rustling is like a festival outside my window.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

Though you are three times more beautiful than angels, Though you are the sister of the river willows, I will kill you with my singing, Without spilling your blood on the ground. Not touching you with my hand, Not giving you one glance, I will stop loving you, But with your unimaginable groans I will finally slake my thirst. From her, who wandered the earth before me, Crueler than ice, more fiery than flame, From her, who still exists in the ether— From her you will set me free.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound; I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground; whisk the lamps away.

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.