Page:Modern Czech Poetry, 1920.djvu/53

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In the coppice, where leaves are decaying, The hind would gently repose; On the country-side, ash-trees are swaying O'er the long, dim meadow in rows.

O'er the meadow with long, dim hedges, Where the yellowish waters plash, There falls on the avenue's edges The fruit of the mountain-ash.

'Tis as though the autumn divided The girdle that decked her with gems, And earthward the corals glided On the faded grasses and stems.

Let fall, too, the flood of my dreaming, Though 'tis but as a leaf that is dead! What once as my spring I was deeming, I would cull now from dreams that are shed. “Blossoms of Intimate Moods” (1891).

Here is the sweetest grass-plot for a bed, In softest lethargy to close the eyes, On naught to brood, nor yearn, but let the head Droop in the grassy couch … Like wreckage flies A huddled clot of clouds, that yonder soar Behind the mountain's ridge .… All lulls thee here,