Page:Three stories by Vítězslav Hálek (1886).pdf/128

 Man here on earth, till death shall bow

His head—’tis love supplieth

The theme of all his joys and tears,

For love he lives and dieth.

Ay! heavenly angels when from harps

Of gold their songs are springing,

What could they sing of, being forbade

Love’s music for their singing.

To Paradise God summoned me,

There to learn songs of heavenly might,

’Tis ill for man alone to be,

And God formed Eve for my delight.

No rib he chose from out my side,

My very heart he did divide,

And therefore doth this heart of mine,

So fondly nestle, love, to thine.

And therefore yearning s passing strange,

Are lodged within this heart so lone,

As tho’ ’twere fain our hearts again,

Should grow together into one.

And therefore when afar I roam,

My feet unbidden turn to home,

And ’stead of blood this heart supplies,

Only the tear drop to my eyes.