Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/139

 My pulse was calm, my heart was still, At clasping of our hands, Not such the eager wayward thrill, That earthly love demands.

Perchance a different feeling sways The fibres of the heart Towards those, who from the wistful gaze Are fated soon to part.

And yet in sooth I lov’d her well, And she indeed was dear, Though scarce I knew the mighty spell That bound my soul to her.

But she is gone, and lowly laid Under the springing grass— O ne’er the mem’ry of the maid Shall from my bosom pass!

But oft I’ll think upon her still, And call her back in thought, And strive to make her mem’ry fill, The void her loss has wrought.