Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/234

210  It flows to the flame-lit crags, To the chasm-crowning ways, Where the sight of the secrets of God Is before us in tumult ablaze.

It speeds to the eddies of light That coil from the sun's gold beams, Where by the shoreless spaces Yearning in solitude dreams.

The wind whips the orphaned pines, Mists in the rain unroll. Ho, mountains, enchanted mountains, The yearning of my soul. 

 is life worth without ecstasy's hours, Void of those frenzies that men in their coldness. Christen transgression and overboldness? Such life is as autumn-tide sodden with showers.

There is no sunlight, that shimmers and glows, There is no blossom, that fragrances spreads, Only a wind o'er the desolate beds, In a piercing monotony blows.

But life is like unto spring-tide, when love And suffering both in its ken it enfolds, When it plucks at the stars in the azure above. Glitter and warmnese and fragrant smells Are the bounteous guerdons that this life holds— All things, whose fountain from raptures of God upwells. 