The hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts.
My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.
What you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.
Man is a rough-hewn and woman a finished product.