Although our love is waning, let us stand by the lone border of the lake once more, together in that hour of gentleness. When the poor tired child, passion, falls asleep.

We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Time can but make it easier to be wise / Though now it seems impossible, and so / All that you need is patience.

Choose your companions from the best; Who draws a bucket with the rest soon topples down the hill.

Never shall a young man, Thrown into despair By those great honey-coloured Ramparts at your ear, Love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart, The heavy steps of the plowman, splashing the wintry mold, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.