Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/115

Rh  By no emotion was she stirred, Her eager face no glow suffused, Her eager face no glow suffused, The fleeting time, what grief it brings, I have grown old, and long ago My skill in love has taken wings!

"" (1897).

 

The meadow of Death grows sere in the gloom, The land is athrob with the lute of Doom; Someone a blossom asunder strips, And presses it close to the feverish lips.

The aged folk are on the brink, And in sips their wine they drink; Upon their locks the moon-light rests, On withered skin and drooping breasts.

Still may they tarry for a space, And still to something turn their face.

Still to the Field they will not go. The yellow blossoms rustle low,— They will not die. They answer "No."

"" (1897). 