Page:Three stories by Vítězslav Hálek (1886).pdf/121

 But human hearts can suffer much,

And sickness tames their might,

And I, i’ faith, can scarcely say,

If mine be day or night.

Thus is it writ. And day and night

Eternally are fleeting,

And only one brief kiss is theirs,

In twilight’s hour of meeting.

What boots it that yon nightingale,

So sweetly sings to me love,

When this estranged heart of mine,

Dallies alone with thee love.

Ah! were his song that charms the sense,

The sweetest ’ere created,

What boots it—when my soul with thee,

And thy sweet soul is sated.

Ah! little mortal man suspects,

How sweet ’tis thus to’ adore thee,

I’d drag the stars from heaven for thee,

And sell my soul, love, for thee.

It seemed to me that thou wert dead,

I heard the death knell tolling,

And through the air a voice of woe

And lamentation rolling.