Page:May (Mácha, 1932).djvu/39

 Spreads o'er his cheeks, cold, pale and damp. And darkness leaves the dismal place.

There where the bleak stone table stands The prisoner rests a weary head, He kneels, half leaning on his hands. Swooning again—half alive—half dead. His feebly whispered voice reveals The troubled dreams, his swoon conceals.

"My spirit—spirit—and my soul." His feeble words thus slowly toll, Across the lips, now tightly pressed. Before the sounds can reach the ears Each word thus spoken disappears; A new thought dies, yet unexpressed.

The jailer nears him pace by pace, His lamp now lights the captive's face. That haggard face—a frightful sight, Motionless eyes that now appear Fixed on some boundless, timeless sphere. Tears, sweat and blood on cheeks alight; Upon his lips, sleeps song's delight

The jailer cautiously bends near, Close to the captive's lips, his ear. And as a breeze lulls o'er the dale The captive whispers on his tale. Nearer and nearer the jailer dips, Closer and closer to the captive's lips, Till lips and ear blend into one. Each whispered sound now softly drips,