An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry/Pure Morning
When we at mom to the gardens, from many dreams weary, came,
All the earth, like our souls, we beheld abloom in the flame,
And of winds, and waters, and plants, and the birds and the bees we would know,
In the night that is o'er, thro' our garden what mystical being did go?
The sand played, changed into gold, where the sacred footprints were left,
The balm-laden waters murmured, as tho’ they by angels were cleft;
Each breath had life's potence, as tho' for a hundred glowing days,
And the awe of the newly-born was seen in every gaze.
The load of our grievous secrets, as tho' 'twere thy will we have borne,
A missive in humbleness kissed, ere the seal asunder is torn;
And the enemy who is lurking asleep at our every gate,
Was like to thy wearied envoy whom we with a welcome await.
In solitudes havoc-ridden, on paths where the demons tread,
Our yearnings' delicate garden blooms e'en as a lily-bed;
And they whose ardour was greatest, the most well-liking and sweet
Of women, in gleaming array, we as spotless sisters did greet.