Breath of earth that sinks to rest in warm embraces,
And the quiver of the stars in flashing traces:
Throbbing, lustre, perfume, surging
Heave their billows like an ocean
With my bosom merging!
I am singing, singing, singing in this night that is enchanted,
In this warm, impassioned night, with wreaths of blossoms round it planted,
Frail, alone.
Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to bemoan?
On the woodland branches growing
In the night, a thirsty bud is;
And my wounded heart is strowing
Drop by drop, the dew,—that blood is,—
Gently flowing.
Spider weave, O weave a net stoutly blended!
Gently, gently, lest thy fibre be rended!
There this night thou show'st no pity
To thy spoil!
Round these slender threads my ditty
Too, shall coil!
Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/323
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NOCTURNE
299
