The Master Theme

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.