5. A QUESTION.
The critic writes: "Our art appears to me
Quite weak and wheezy in its aged distress.
Where can our epoch's youthful spirit be?
Who'll chant of spring in poems that possess
The sap of spring? Who from the grave will free
Youth, strength, with wondrous verses for their dress?"
He wrote. And rubbing both his hands with glee
He squinted at his own book, in the press.
6. TO CZECH POETRY.
Once not a hair of yours durst slip aside;
Staidly attired, you let no tress be shown;
But then you loosed your locks, and far and wide,
Like birch-boughs in the breezes they were blown,
Dishevelled thus,—but there is naught to chide;
My ample love for you has never flown,
Whether your hair be trammelled or untied,—
If but the locks you show us are your own.
