Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/224

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 'Mid silence of the fields at morn I breathe, as breathe these very grasses O'er days agone, and days unborn I would not chafe, nor reckoning squander. This only do I feel once more: What gladness—ne'er again to ponder, What bliss—to know all yearning o'er. 



yonder, 'mid hills in a shimmering bend Lo, the city afar. Pale village and woodland before it extend, Where tintings of meadow and pasturage blend, The city gleams faintly afar.

Nor dwelling, nor yard—but in shadows of night, Something glides through the mist. As if listless o'er many a goul in its plight, As if weary o'er many a vision of might, O'er the city lies dimly the mist.

Live vapours of toiling and passionate cries Weave a darkening pall. Dust and smoke and the specks and the shadows that rise, And numberless hearts with their throbbings and sighs, Aloft weave a darkening pall.

