Page:An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry.pdf/124

120  Hark! the rushes render, Accents dreamy, tender,
 * And they quiver, as 'neath kisses

Thy bosom in its splendour.

They flow in sorrow blent. Night is a flower; there went
 * From out its bosom, spreading languor,

A music-laden scent!

Naught brings such grievous pain As a flute with passionate strain,
 * When in the rosy glow of eve

The light of day doth wane.

"" (1886).

 

Nightingale, on whom in nights of splendour Hafiz was intent, Where sing'st thou now? Rose, o'er whom full often Dante, plunged in meditation, bent, Where bloom'st thou now? Star of sweetness, unto whose dream-laden brightness from his cell, Tasso's woeful plaint was lifted and his thronging sighs were sent, Where gleam'st thou now? 