Page:May (Mácha, 1932).djvu/61

 Where I asked, the coming day, about the skull I found; An aged innkeeper just pointed to the mound And told the tale I've told, the tale of the man long dead.

Again life's changing course, led me into the world, Many a stormy whirl dragged me to depths of grief, But as if drawn by force, wherever I was hurled, Each Spring I came upon this mound for a moment brief. And with the setting sun I sat upon the mound, Above me the wheel and pole—the bones and age-bleached skull; With saddened eyes I gazed upon the Springborn ground, And on the mountain tops, wrapped in a foggy hull.

Again 'twas evening—first of May— A night in May—'twas time for love; A love lure sang the turtle dove Where scented pine groves stretched away. The tranquil moss sighed love's lament, Love's sorrow shammed the blooming tree, A nightingale sang love's melody, While a rose replied with love's sweet scent. The lake, hid where the thicket reared Expressed its grief in a muffled sound Where the banks entwined it all around, As if embracing, they appeared.