THE YELLOW FLOWER
On the court-yards of the Hradchin,
In restfulness and orphan-lone,
The blades of grass, long-suffering,
Raise their heads above the stone.
Grass, dear grass, that bear'st thy doom
With patience, grass suffused with gloom.
O'er it winds are sweeping,
On it the sun is beaming,
From this grass is blooming
A blossom yellow-gleaming.
In all the country none appears
More yellow, and 'tis washed by tears.
Pluck thou one asunder,
It fills thy heart with woe;
Pluck thou now a second,
In thy hand 'twill glow.
Pluck thou a third, without a sound
Blood from its stem flows to the ground.
On the court-yards of the Hradchin,
A wanderer passes by;
He plucks the flowers asunder,
A garland he would tie.
A hundred years in his search he doth spend
'Mid the stones, for of blossoms there is no end.
