O. Březina (1868–1929)
The night sang quietly; and Spring’s first shoots,
her murmuring streams, accompanied the solemn melody;
the stars above, like radiant goblets vast,
breathed in from growth unearthly heavy scent;
my brethren’s arms lay crossed upon their breast
subdued, as if in death, weighed down, at rest,
by heavy labour spent.
Yet they to stars their ghostly arms were holding,
a million souls in the universe enfolding,
and the long relief of waking joy,
the eternal city’s festive symphony,
through ghostly sowing the breeze, unearthly wings,
from unseen orchestras the strings,
to their mystic gesture moved in harmony.