Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/144



HITHER, O whither, now all things are over? We to our journey and he to his home; Eyes cannot pierce through the veil that must cover Him whom we’ve laid in the still silent tomb.

He hath but ended his journey before us, We for a season are sojourning still On the same earth with the same heaven o’er us,— Turn we, O turn we, our tasks to fulfil!

Whither, O whither, now all things are ended? We to our labour and he to his rest; Let not the heart by its woe be offended, Man seeks the pleasant, but God gives the best.