An Anthology of Jugoslav Poetry; Serbian Lyrics Part 17

O. M.

XCIII

PLUCKING A FLOWER

He. O maiden, vermeil rose!

Unplanted, unsown, Blooming alone As the wild-flower blows, With a will of thine own!

Neither grafted nor grown, Neither gather'd nor blown, O maiden, O rose!

Blooming alone In the green garden-close Unnoticed, unknown, Unpropt, unsupported, Unwater'd, and uncourted, Unwoo'd and unwed, A sweet wild rose, Who knows? Who knows?

Might I kiss thee, and court thee?

My kiss would not hurt thee!

A sweet, sweet rose, In the green garden-close, If a gate were undone, And if I might come to thee And meet thee alone?

Sue thee, and woo thee, And make thee my own?

Clasp thee, and cull thee, what harm would be done?

She. Beside thy field my garden blows, Were a gate in the garden left open ... who knows?

And I water'd my garden at eventide?

(Who knows?) And if somebody silently happen'd to ride That way? And a horse to the gate should be tied?

And if somebody (Who knows who,), unespied, Were to enter my garden to gather a rose?

Who knows?... I suppose No harm need be done. My beloved one, Come lightly, come softly, at set of the sun!

Come, and caress me!

Kiss me, and press me, Fold me, and hold me!

Kiss me with kisses that leave not a trace, But set not the print of thy teeth on my face, Or my mother will see it, and scold me.

O. M.

XCIV

A WISH

I would I were a rivulet, And I know where I would run!

To Save, the chilly river, Where the market boats pa.s.s on; To see my dear one stand By the rudder; and whether the rose Which, at parting, I put in his hand, Warm with a kiss in it, blows; Whether it blows or withers: I pluckt it on Sat.u.r.day; I gave it to him on Sunday; On Monday he went away.

O. M.

XCV

A SERBIAN BEAUTY

'Tis the Kolo[31] that dances before the white house, And 'tis Stojan's fair sister, O fair, fair is she!

Too fair she is truly, too fair, heaven knows, (G.o.d forgive her!) so cruel to be.

The fair Vila, whom the wan clouds fondly follow O'er the mountain wherever she roam it, Is not fairer nor whiter than she.

Her long soft eyelash is the wing of the swallow When the dew of the dawn trembles from it, And as dawn-stars her blue eyes to me: Her eyebrows so dark are the slender sea-leeches; Her rich-bloomed cheeks are the ripe river peaches, Her teeth are white pearls from the sea; Her lips are two half-open'd roses; And her breath the south wind, which discloses The sweetness that soothes the wild bee.

She is tall as the larch, she is slender As any green bough the birds move; See her dance--'tis the peac.o.c.k's full splendour!

Hear her talk--'tis the coo of the dove!

And, only but let her look tender-- 'Tis all heaven melting down from above!

O. M.

XCVI

SLEEPLESSNESS

Sleep will not take the place of Love, Nor keep the place from Sorrow.

Oh, when the long nights slowly move To meet a lonely morrow, The burden of the broken days, The grief that on the bosom weighs, And all the heart oppresses, But lightly lies on restless eyes Love seals no more with kisses.

O. M.

XCVII

A MESSAGE

Sweet sister of my loved, unloving one, Kiss thy wild brother, kiss him tenderly!

Ask him what is it, witless, I have done That he should look so coldly upon me?

Ah, well ... I know he recks not! Let it be.

Yet say ... "There's many a woodland nodding yet For who needs wood when winter nights be cold."

Say ... "Love to give finds ever love to get.

There lack not goldsmiths where there lacks not gold.

The wood will claim the woodman by-and-by; The gold (be sure!) the goldsmith cannot miss; Each maid to win finds lads to woo: and I...."

Well, child, but only tell him, tell him this!

Sweet sister, tell him this!

O. M.

XCVIII