140
BOHEMIAN LEGENDS.
ACH, NO—THOU SLEEPEST.
It seems to me, that in the spring’s sweet air,
Thy childish voice I almost seem to hear,
So far away—so far up in the air—
From where the lark up in the vaulted sphere
Sings, and my heart goes out to meet thee there—
Ach, no thou sleepest!
It seems to me, when I kneel by thy mound
Crossing myself, with folded hands I pray,
Thou nestles to my sorrowing heart, and round
Thy presence lingers as it used to stay,
And in thy eyes I gaze without a sound—
Ach, no—thou sleepest.
