2. MY POETRY.
Staidness of marble, coolness the shadow strews,
Thou are a still, pale maid, all pondering;
Let songs of others be as a woman, whose
Wont it is in the unclean streets to sing.
I do not bedizen thee with baubles, nor
With yellow roses bespread thy flowing hair;
Too beautiful shalt thou be for all to adore,
Too proud to live that others may think thee fair.
Be too sorrowful in the grief that is thine,
Ever to come with solace to them that pine;
Too shamefast ever to lead the jostling throng.
Be ever placid, while thy body holds
Not a sumptuous garment in heavy folds,
But clusters of riddling mist that hover along.
1. BY THE VARDAR.
Brown, never-ageing crags are proudly to heaven uplifted;
Over the bouldered depths, with clouds the eagles are warring.
Downward with terrible burst into foam the Vardar is sifted,
