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[p. 45]

Hunting

The land I tread is neatly tilled,
for every man must do his duty;
just Nature gives the busy wealth,
to melancholics shows her beauty.

The pale blue sky is almost grey
behind the smoke from burning weeds;
the same shade had your distant eyes
when they observed my futile deeds.

Already with indifference,
forgetting bitterness and pain,
I shoot the madly running hare.

But when I hold it in my hands
and feel its warmth, its little hairs,
I've lost your loveliness again.