An Anthology of Jugoslav Poetry; Serbian Lyrics Part 16

She. Love me, my love, from those heights of thine, And I shall grow tall, so tall, The pearl is small, but it hangs above The royal brow, and a kingly mind The quail is little, little, my love, But she leaves the hunter behind.

O. M.

Lx.x.xVIII

A SOUL'S SWEETNESS

He. O maiden of my soul!

What odour from the orange hast thou stole, That breathes about thy breast with such sweet power?

What sweetness, unto me More sweet than amber honey to the bee That builds in the oaken hole, And sucks the essential summer of the year To store with sweetest sweets her hollow tower?

Or is it breath of basil, maiden dear?

Or of the immortal flower?

She. By the sweet heavens, young lover!

No odour from the orange have I stole; Nor have I robb'd for thee, Dearest the amber dower Of the building bee, From any hollow tower In oaken bole: But if, on this poor breast thou dost discover Fragrance of such sweet power, Trust me, O my beloved and my lover, 'Tis not of basil, nor the immortal flower, But from a virgin soul.

O. M.

Lx.x.xIX

REMINISCENCES

He. "And art thou wed, my beloved?

My Beloved of long ago?"

She. "I am wed, my Beloved. And I have given A child to this world of woe.

And the name I have given my child is thine: So that, when I call to me my little one, The heaviness of this heart of mine For a little while may be gone.

For I say not ... 'Hither, hither, my son!'

But ... 'Hither, my Love, my Beloved.'"

XC

SLEEP AND DEATH

The morning is growing: the c.o.c.ks are crowing: Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the morning light; Only the moonbeam white.

Stay, my white lamb, stay, And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

The breeze is blowing: the cattle are lowing: Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the cattle there; Only the call to prayer.

Stay, my white lamb, stay, And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

The Turks are warning to the mosque, 'tis morning!

Let me away, love, away!

'Tis not the Turks, sweet soul!

Only the wolves that howl.

Stay, my white lamb, stay, And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

The white roofs are gleaming: the glad children screaming: Let me away, love, away!

'Tis the night-clouds that gleam: The night winds that scream.

Stay, my white lamb, stay, And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

My mother in the gateway calls to me.... "Come straightway"

And I must away, love, away!

Thy mother's in her bed, Dumb, holy, and dead.

Stay, my white lamb, stay, And sleep on my bosom, sleep.

O. M.

XCI

IMPERFECTION

All in the spring, When little birds sing, And flowers do talk From stalk to stalk; Whispering to a silver shower, A violet did boast to be Of every flower the fairest flower That blows by lawn or lea.

But a rose that blew thereby Answer'd her reproachfully, (All in the spring, When little birds sing, And flowers do talk From stalk to stalk): "Violet, I marvel me Of fairest flowers by lawn or lea The fairest thou should'st boast to be; For one small defect I spy, Should make thee speak more modestly: Thy face is fas.h.i.+on'd tenderly, But then it hangs awry."

O. M.

XCII

EMANc.i.p.aTION

The Day of Saint George! and a girl pray'd thus: "O Day of Saint George, when again to us Thou returnest, and they carouse Here in my mother's house, May'st thou find me either a corpse or a bride, Either buried or wed; Rather married than dead; But, however, that may betide, And whether a corpse or a spouse, No more in my mother's house."