An Anthology of Modern Bohemian Poetry/The Yellow Flowers
THE YELLOW FLOWERS
The meadow of Death grows sere in the gloom,
The land is athrob with the lute of Doom;
Someone a blossom asunder strips,
And presses it close to the feverish lips.
The aged folk are on the brink,
And in sips their wine they drink;
Upon their locks the moon-light rests,
On withered skin and drooping breasts.
Still may they tarry for a space,
And still to something turn their face.
Still to the Field they will not go.
The yellow blossoms rustle low,—
They will not die. They answer "No."
"Sorrows Overcome" (1897).