Gift of old-time lords and pious populace,
Ducats on His throat, linked as a necklet, shine;
On the frame the purest silver meshes twine,
And the frame was carved by smith of Debar's race.
Thus, amid the lonely church, doth Christ abide,
And while gradual darkness falls on every side,
With a swarm of night-birds, on their prey intent,
In the lonely shrine, where vampires wheel around,
Christ with hands outstretched, benumbed and horror-bound,
Endlessly awaits the flock that ne'er is sent.
1. THE SONG OF THE DEAD.
To Laza Kostić.
We have perished, 'tis said, and now are no more. . .
Ruthlessly time all life bears away.
Over our bones sleep the days that are o'er,
And all that is left,—a mere phantom of gray.
But we wot it better, and smile at the race
Of beings that live. Man, a moment abide.
We know, thou would'st deem that thy life's fleeting space
Was lavished from heaven itself to thy side.
