Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of aagold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.

From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an aahundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, aasending its glad voice across an hundred years.