Only an anguished melody still flows
From earth where hazes cast a veiling net . . .
In every nook the faded beauty stows
Her faded blooms, lest springtide she forget.
But the desire, still more to gladden, glows
Within; unchilled her inmost ardour yet,
And gaudy sashes round her waist she throws
And asters in her tresses she has set;
And she would laugh, as she has laughed of old —
But ‘mid her wrinkles laughter numbly fled
And from them only pity, pity cries . . .
Divining, this perchance she can surmise:
Each morn a hundred tears her garb enfold,
That in her sleepless, anguished night are shed.
(Josef Svatopluk Machar)
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