Page:May (Mácha, 1932).djvu/42

 "When midnight silence crowns the waves, Wandering lights flit o'er the graves, And with their deathly, bluish sheen, They light the rigid, pallid mien Of him who now the watch shall keep. Leaning against his cross of wood, To guard this field of dreamless sleep. A cloud across the zenith flies And partly hides as with a hood The moon, whose light falls on the eyes— And thence upon the guard's clenched teeth, Where the moonbeam finds its last retreat."

"The time is ripe!—Prepare the tent! The 'Forest Lord' is to be sent Into our fold the coming day."

"From the land of death now speed away, Regain new life and speak again, Come be with us—a welcome guest. For long, alone you stood the test, Now someone else will take the reign."

"Within my limbs, a pain I feel; Again as one I long to be. What anguish in this mute appeal? A new born dream now beckons me!"

"His tent is ready for the guest, And when tomorrow's mid-night falls