Songs of the Slav
Sound from a hundred throats,
And strained nerves
Tremble with bliss.
Wretched mankind!
Some sort of phantom,
Fara morgana,
Glittered somewhere for thee
In the boundless desert!
Wretched mankind!
The following hour
Again art thou further on,
Ahasuerus of thy fable,
In thy flight!
And the deceitful phantom
Will find itself in the jaws
Of the bluish past,
As all things else!
And the spiral spreads and spreads.
The nineteenth circle,
Which we call enlightened,
Runs into the twentieth.
'Tis an age of steam,
Chemistry and physics,
And a god grown old,
And several kings,
And rows of fine battles,
And full of knowledge,
And nerves unstrung,
And of vain hopes,
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