An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry/Alder-Trees
Antonín Sova (b. 1864).
Ye alder-trees, to me how dear,
At eve, with fragrant coolness near,
When o'er the water bent alone,
Your shadow here and there was thrown.
Somewhere the ﬁshers' voices trailing,
Within the depths of night are quailing;
The mill-sails, as they rustle low,
Have stirred within me old-time woe.
Among the reeds a snipe, black speck,
The pond with ripples did bedeck;
And likewise in my soul, meseems,
Has strayed the bird of golden dreams.