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MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY
99
Wild poppies in the sun-light sway—-
Where am I, when they fade away?
"The Ruins" (1903).
Jan Neruda (1834—1891).
TO MY MOTHER
VI.
Know'st thou, dear mother, of the golden sun,
And of his mother—legend passing fair,
Who, night by night upon her withered breast
To slumber lulls her son far spent with care?
Yea, the poor wight must rove enough, enough,
Yea, all the day he thro' the world must go,
Enough grey mists and tempests, gloomy clouds,
Almost as much as man bears here below.
A grey-beard he lies down, a youth he rises,
With new-gained strength afresh o'er heaven runs,—
O mother, mother, yea, thou righteous angel,—
My need is e'en as grievous as the sun's.
"Book of Verses" (1867).
