Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/320

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Gently, gently, gently, spider Spins a thread; Where the fir-trees slimly loom, in woods, the stag has laid his head; Night, the silent, lofty, presses O'er the land with silvery glazes, And a quenchèd lamp she raises From the water's deep recesses. Guiding mortals by the hand, as blind sons, dream advances. —I will weave a nest, O mother, deep within their glances— Cricket from the grass is prying: See, O darling, see! Gently, gently spins the spider Threadlets three.

Woe, woe, woe has gathered round me, Black and fierce. In my breast a green-hued sprig of rose has made a thorn to pierce. And my sobbing, sobbing, sobbing In this lustrous night doth scatter; Pearly tear-drops downward patter; With restive wings I set them throbbing: