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MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY
Upon God's earth, all now is mute,
But the heart its song desires;
God knows, it is the heart alone
That never, never tires.
Thought is by slumber overcome,
Night changes place with day;
The heart keeps watch, aye in the breast,
And there o'er love holds sway.
XI.
Like to a spreading tree am I,
Decked for a festive day;
Come hither to the shade I spread,
Thou lovely rose of May.
Here every leaf in fragrance breathes,
The bees go humming by;
The birds fly in the evening here,
They are my thoughts that fly.
They fly away, far, far away,
Like children from their home;
But if thou com’st to tarry nigh,
No longer will they roam.
