Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/113

Rh  Ah, he who forgets,—
 * In the bounds of the world

For him ne'er has joy
 * Its blossoms unfurled.

Ah, he who forgets,
 * The bliss he has borne

In his hands is the blossom
 * Changed to a thorn.

Ah, he who forgets,—
 * His transgression is sore,

And God will take pleasure
 * In him nevermore.

"" (1891).

 Antonín Sova (b. 1864).

Ye alder-trees, to me how dear, At eve, with fragrant coolness near, When o'er the water bent alone, Your shadow here and there was thrown.

Somewhere the ﬁshers' voices trailing, Within the depths of night are quailing; The mill-sails, as they rustle low, Have stirred within me old-time woe. 