Farewell now, peaceful dales, farewell to
Familliar hilltops that I call to
Farwell, familliar wood nearby,
Farwell, the beauty of the sky,
Farewell, glad nature that I cherish;
I am exchanging my dear peace
For noisey, glittering vanities...
Farewell my freedom that must persih!
Whither and wherefore do I strive?
What can I hope for in this life?

To spartan prose the years are turning,
Coquettish rhyme the years are spurning;
And I - I with a sigh confess -
I'm running after her much less,
My pen has lost its former pleasures
Of daubing fleeting leaves, it seems,
Today, quite different, chilling dreams;
Quite different unrelenting pressures,
In stillness or in social noise,
Disturb the sleep my soul enjoys.

I want to fly into the skies,
like nightingales
and rest on roses
with my tender being.
Now my mind lies
on each leaf,
like shadows do in the summer.

If I could only tell
all my worries to myself,
because I am chained to tiredness,
and so cannot talk,
let alone sing about them.

We often ask ourselves "why can't they see it the way we do? Why is it that that they can't adjust themselves to think like me, even if only for an hour?" And so we get disappointed in everyone, we think them fools and not once try to see things as they see it, not once do we try to think the way they do and thus we shall never understand why it is that they don't understand.