This page has been validated.
S. Čech (1846–1908)
From there a light had flashed,
The glint of scythes that pierced
The dim-lit morning haze;
The scythes on shoulders borne
Of men that paced along
Towards the trodden ways.
Powerful, sunburnt men
Whose thick and hardened arms
The veins stood out upon;
And through the home-spun shirt
Each weather-beaten chest
Like burnished copper shone.
They came, with pouch on hip,
And laid their scythes to ground
Beside that waving sea;
Then on the handle set
Their hardened palms and stood
A moment, silently.
Still, thoughtfully they gazed
Where, sweeping through the plains,
That golden forest lay;
Across the broad expanse
Exulting in its pride
On this, its final day.
57
