The honeysuckle in your garden needs a support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine its tendrils and cling lovingly.

Read, oh! read, and then say once more: 'You are dear to me,' or send me from you." "Give it to me," said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.
He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes followed hers while she was reading.

She began with the last poem but one.

It had been written just after Georg's return the day before, and ran as follows: "Joyously they march along, Lights are flashing through the panes, In the streets a busy throng Curiosity enchains.
Oh! the merry festal night; Would that it might last for aye! For aye! Alas! Love, splendor, light, All, all have passed away." The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen the night before.

In them he bewailed his hard fate.