And the shoes of silver

Tear he shall from feet mine light.

Hence it is that grieves my spirit:

That in place of my chaprak

With thy skin shall cover he

My perspiring sides.

1833.

TO A BABE.

CHILD, I dare not over thee

Pronounce a blessing;

Thou art of consolation a quiet angel

May then happy be thy lot...

THE POET.

ERE the poet summoned is

To Apollo's holy sacrifice

In the world's empty cares

Engrossed is half-hearted he.

His holy lyre silent is

And cold sleep his soul locks in;

And of the world's puny children,

Of all puniest perhaps is he.

Yet no sooner the heavenly word

His keen ear hath reached,

Than up trembles the singer's soul

Like unto an awakened eagle.

The world's pastimes him now weary

And mortals' gossip now he shuns

To the feet of popular idol

His lofty head bends not he.

Wild and stem, rushes he,

Of tumult full and sound,

To the shores of desert wave,

Into the widely-whispering wood.

1827.

SONNET: POET, NOT POPULAR APPLAUSE SHALT THOU PRIZE!.

POET, not popular applause shalt thou prize!

Of raptured praise shall pass the momentary noise;