Page:Poet Lore, volume 34, 1923.djvu/68

 she has men, beasts, and plants. But plants are dearest to her; they hold firmly, firmly to her bosom and never release their hold of her! What a noble child of hers art thou, thou whispering, delicate poplar, thou pensive tree full of tenderness; for I know that only from tenderness dost thou tremble, and not from fear, like mankind. O, grant that I lean my wretched head against thy slender trunk; and whisper to me, whisper, O poplar! (Seats himself beneath the tree and leans his head against it.)

Nyola (Softly).—Is he asleep or awake? Does he speak in a fever or with a clear mind? Let me pass, that I may convince myself.

Radovid.—Stay, lady. Grant him relief; thou seest that the is resting quietly as a child.

Nyola.—Why does he not so lay his head against my bosom? For that I long in tears and anguish.

Radovid.—How strangely the tree trembled but just now! Methinks that something is to happen.

Nyola.—Let us then quietly give heed.

The tree becomes transparent and rustles; and, visible within it, speaks.

Mahulena.—My whole being trembles more violently, and with my agony is mingled an unutterable sweetness. It is he, it is he for whom so immeasurably I ever long, thirst, yearn! The mist of my memory is clearing away, and again I know what I am and what I am called! It is Radúz; he lies at my feet as once in the forest long, long ago! Against my trunk he rests his fair head, and with his breath trembles my sore heart, wounded unto death. It is he, it is he! All the stars of heaven have rained down at my feet from on high! To bend over him, what blessedness! To weep over him, what a balm! Alas that more is not given me! If I could but cry out that sweet name into the starry night! Ah, hearing my voice trembling with love, he would regain his memory: that I know, that I know! Yet to speak with him, that is not given me: only when his body is buried in dreams, then my spirit can speak to his spirit—but when he awakens he immediately forgets what he dreamed, and he departs, and straightway I too fall again into the drowsiness of my plant life! Like a spark into ashes, his name falls into forgetfulness with me and mine with him! What a sorrow is that, what a sorrow!

Nyola.—The sound of that tree fills me with horror! Methinks that I heard a human voice amid that rustling! My hand