Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/93



S I my own Ludmilla Conducted to her home, Upon the grass we sat us,— What’s that to any one?

But it was nothing naughty, That there we two were at, But only open-hearted Did we together chat.

I squeeze her little fingers, With faltering voice declare, ‘If but, my dear Ludmilla, A bit more grown you were!’

She cast her little eyes down, And at her cheeks so bright, (So red they glow’d with blushes,) You might a candle light.

I speak again, ‘Dear Maiden, What is it makes thy woe’? With that upon me streaming, Her scalding tears did flow.