The Violets Prattle And Titter, And Gaze

This Was But A Prelude; Where Books Are Burnt Human-beings Will Be Burnt In The End

On The Waves Of The Brook She Dances By, The Light, The Lovely Dragon-fly; She Dances Here, She Dances There, The Shimmering, Glimmering Flutterer Fair. And Many A Foolish Young Beetle's Impressed By The Blue Gauze Gown In Which She Is Dressed; They Admire The Enamel That Decks Her Bright, And Her Elegant Waist So Slim And Slight.

The Spring's Already At The Gate With Looks My Care Beguiling; The Country Round Appeareth Straight A Flower-garden Smiling.

Lo, Sleep Is Good, Better Is Death--in Sooth The Best Of All Were Never To Be Born.

Whatever Tears One May Shed, In The End One Always Blows One's Nose.