An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry/Melancholy Serenade XXII

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search

MELANCHOLY SERENADE XXII

 

Naught brings such grievous pain
As a flute with passionate strain,
When in the rosy glow of eve
The light of day doth wane.

'Mid trees the sound doth flow,
In darkness lying low,
Saying: "O ye dreams of youth,
Ye fill my soul with woe!"

And it laments and sighs,
In tender, moving wise,
As my belovèd, softly breathing
O'er my brow and eyes.

Hark! the rushes render,
Accents dreamy, tender,
And they quiver, as 'neath kisses
Thy bosom in its splendour.

They flow in sorrow blent.
Night is a flower; there went
From out its bosom, spreading languor,
A music-laden scent!

Naught brings such grievous pain
As a flute with passionate strain,
When in the rosy glow of eve
The light of day doth wane.

 

"Music in the Sould" (1886).