Page:Three stories by Vítězslav Hálek (1886).pdf/123

 And when it irks us in the grave,

I’ll wreath a song around their heart,

And sing them songs of such delight,

The dead to life shall start.

But if ye living idly dream,

The good that’s ne’er accomplished

I’ll rouse the dead against you, ay!

I’ll wake the living with the dead

Ye little birds upon the tree,

Whose very dreams are song,

Which of you thinks of me, your friend,

Who dies of cruel wrong.

Thou little moon ride high in heaven,

I hail thee for my brother,

My passion’s beam is chill as thine,

We suit with one another.

The last faint flickering warmth is quenched,

And only words remain,

Yet, could I fan them into life,

I’d live my griefs again.

Ah! marvel not if thou should’st hear,

The birds sing songs of thee love,

Since once they came at eventide,

To hear and look on me love.