Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/107

Rh

On the court-yards of the Hradchin,
 * In restfulness and orphan-lone,

The blades of grass, long-suffering,
 * Raise their heads above the stone.

Grass, dear grass, that bear'st thy doom With patience, grass suffused with gloom.

O'er it winds are sweeping,
 * On it the sun is beaming,

From this grass is blooming
 * A blossom yellow-gleaming.

In all the country none appears More yellow, and 'tis washed by tears.

Pluck thou one asunder,
 * It fills thy heart with woe;

Pluck thou now a second,
 * In thy hand 'twill glow.

Pluck thou a third, without a sound Blood from its stem flows to the ground.

On the court-yards of the Hradchin,
 * A wanderer passes by;

He plucks the flowers asunder,
 * A garland he would tie.

A hundred years in his search he doth spend 'Mid the stones, for of blossoms there is no end.

"" (1904).