In spring's own country, where the gardens blow, You faded, tender rose! For hours now past, Like butterflies departing, on you're cast The worms of … - Adam Mickiewicz

Translation: Listen to me, God, and you, Nature!
Here is music that is worthy of you, songs that are worthy of you.
I am master!
Master, I stretch out my hands! I stretch them to the sky, I place my fingers on the stars. They are my musical glasses, my armonica.

Kiedy spojrzę w kometę z całą mocą duszy,
Dopóki na nią patrzę, z miejsca się nie ruszy.

Translation: A tyrant has arisen, Herod! Lord, the youth of Poland Is all delivered into Herod's hands. What do I see? Long snowy ways, with many crossroads, White roads that stretch through wastes too distant to descry! All running to the north, that far, far country, As rivers flow; [...]