To read only children's books,
To cherish only children's thoughts.
All grown-up things to disperse far away,
And to rise from a deep sorrow.

I am mortally tired of life,
I accept nothing of it,
But I love my poor earth,
Because I’ve seen no other.

I swung myself in a far-off garden
On the simple wooden swing,
Remembering tall dark fir trees
In an obscure delirium.