Page:Songs of the Slav.pdf/47



How strange and feverish the haste appears, With which our modern living flies. Gaze back adown the row of bygone years And you begin to feel a longing rise.

As if you rode a train that could not stop Or knew not whither it was rushing thee. As regions pass thee by, perchance you'd stop, But then a stop impossible would be.

A few friends now ride in the car with you, A few fleet girlish glances you behold, They leave as others then in turn will do.

At length thou'rt weary,—all a sameness takes, You feel the heart is quickly growing old And fills with longing when remembrance wakes.