V. de Sola
A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined;
A record of my pain and of your praise,
Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays,
These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind.
They come from where no man can sunshine find,
Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days;
Above them savage peaks the mountains raise,
Where tempests roar and nature is unkind.
They were all fed on many a plaint and tear;
Frail growth these blossoms had, so sad and few,
As over them Malignant storm-clouds flew.
Behold how weak and faded they appear!
Send but your rays their glory to renew -
Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near.