Page:May (Mácha, 1932).djvu/32

 "When will she end her ceaseless fall?" Never—nowhere—an aimless goal. About the white tower winds frolic at will. While 'neath it the whispering ripples spill; Upon the white wall, the moonlight bright Pours out a flood of silvery light. But deep 'neath the tower, 'tis dark and drear, For there the moon-beams shining might Flits through the casement bars in fear To change into a part-lit night. Into the dark, the columns stretch stark and bare. While the maddened wind that howls and moans Sounds through the jail like dead men's groans And ruffles the captive's unkempt hair. There, where the bleak stone table stands, The prisoner rests a weary head, He kneels, half leaning on his hands, His mind each happy thought defies. And in the clouds that span the moonlit waste, The captive wraps his soul in furtive haste: Each thought awakes new thought—and dies.

"Deep, silent night! With your black scorn You hide the huts where I was born, And where, I know she mourns for me! She mourns? For me?—'tis but a dream! For her, I long have ceased to be. Soon as tomorrow's rays will gleam Above our woods, I shall atone Upon the gallows for my crime. And she'll rejoice as that first time We met where smiling sunbeams shone."