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MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY
109
Ah, he who forgets,—
In the bounds of the world
For him ne'er has joy
Its blossoms unfurled.
Ah, he who forgets,
The bliss he has borne
In his hands is the blossom
Changed to a thorn.
Ah, he who forgets,—
His transgression is sore,
And God will take pleasure
In him nevermore.
"A Medley" (1891).
Antonín Sova (b. 1864).
ALDER-TREES
Ye alder-trees, to me how dear,
At eve, with fragrant coolness near,
When o'er the water bent alone,
Your shadow here and there was thrown.
Somewhere the fishers' voices trailing,
Within the depths of night are quailing;
The mill-sails, as they rustle low,
Have stirred within me old-time woe.
