There are still some patches of snow. I hold in my hand a sprig of pussy-willow.
For March is like a woman blowing a fire of green wood.
—That the Summer
And the dreadful day under the glare of the sun may be forgotten,
O Nature,
Here I offer myself to you!
I know so little!
Look at me! There is something that I need.
But what it is I do not know and I could cry forever
Loud and low like a child that one hears in the distance, like children left alone beside the glowing embers!