V. Hálek (1835–1874)
THE RUSTLE OF THE TREES IS HUSHED
The rustle of the trees is hushed,
The leaves hang breathlessly,
A bird dreams on in tranquil sleep,
So still, so noiselessly.
Many stars have climbed the sky,
Around them emptiness.
A desolation in the breast,
At heart a loneliness.
Within the chalice of the flowers
The dewy crystals rise.
O God, I feel the drops of dew
Come stealing to my eyes.