I love the first shoots that make our fields quicken,
And the meadows swaddled in fresh green,
And the forest sounds that sadly keen,
And a summer freshet's murmured trickle...
I love our village decked with mossy sheen,
Witness to all the wrongs on it inflicted,
Our people, like a flower wilted, stricken,
Dear to me is our country's every scene.
I love the sparkling eyes and the soft breast
And the lissom form of a fair maid,
Awake, asleep, think of her constantly,
I love - and cry out in my loneliness:
And the dry forest hears the cry I've prayed,
The cry: O who, O who is there loves me?
1912