Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/102

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In youth we raised our brows on high, When first we heard Life's thunder roar, Unwearied Life its thunder sent; But we ere long our heads had bent, Why let the brow be smitten sore?

Wherefore lament? Wise destiny Has measured out our final hour! A grave on earth O wondrous fair, Why for another end prepare? Yea, for no longer have we power.

"."

 Josef Müldner (b. 1880).

My heart, thou long wert sore distressed, Now sweetly canst thou take thy rest.

By ocean's shore, where sand-hills be, 'Neath brown-lined sails upon the sea.

'Mid scent of ocean-air and grass, Around in herds the cattle pass. 