Content
The book contains 32 poems:
- Ellipsis (...) indicates first line of an untitled poem
| Sequence | Poem title or first line | |
|---|---|---|
| 01I | All catches alight... | |
| 02II | This was your place of birth, this daytime palace... | |
| 03III | The moon is full tonight... | |
| 04IV | Dawn | |
| 05V | Conscript | |
| 06VI | Kick up the fire, and let the flames break loose... | |
| 07VII | The horns of the morning... | |
| 08VIII | Winter | |
| 09IX | Climbing the hill within the deafening wind... | |
| 10X | Within the dream you said... | |
| 11XI | Night-Music | |
| 12XII | Like the train's beat... | |
| 13XIII | I put my mouth... | |
| 14XIV | Nursery Tale | |
| 15XV | The Dancer | |
| 16XVI | The bottle is drunk out by one... | |
| 17XVII | To write one song, I said... | |
| 18XVIII | If grief could burn out... | |
| 19XIX | Ugly Sister | |
| 20XX | I see a girl dragged by the wrists... | |
| 21XXI | I dreamed of an out-thrust arm of land... | |
| 22XXII | One man walking a deserted platform... | |
| 23XXIII | If hands could free you, heart... | |
| 24XXIV | Love, we must part now: do not let it be... | |
| 25XXV | Morning has spread again... | |
| 26XXVI | This is the first thing... | |
| 27XXVII | Heaviest of flowers, the head... | |
| 28XXVIII | Is it for now or for always... | |
| 29XXIX | Pour away that youth... | |
| 30XXX | So through that unripe day you bore your head... | |
| 31XXXI | The North Ship |
Legend |
| 32XXXII | Waiting for breakfast, while she brushed her hair... | |
Read more about this topic: The North Ship
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Princess Dala: I don’t drink.
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“Strange that so few ever come to the woods to see how the pine lives and grows and spires, lifting its evergreen arms to the light,—to see its perfect success; but most are content to behold it in the shape of many broad boards brought to market, and deem that its true success! But the pine is no more lumber than man is, and to be made into boards and houses is no more its true and highest use than the truest use of a man is to be cut down and made into manure.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)