Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/167

Rh

finds its God. The cold winds of the North set the bells swaying in the clouded town of my birth, that they may sing in the wondrously sweet language of my mother a penitent litany for a prodigal son. And haply already the chill and mournful snow is falling on the sad peaks that begird my native land.