Vladimir Nazor

“ And my bosom is so frail, and in this woe a store of bane is!
⁠From my heart the blood-drops patter:
⁠Tap, tap, tap. . .
In that thorn from off the rose-tree poisoned is the sap.
⁠Can the moon reveal no splendour,
⁠Or the night-bloom scent engender.
⁠With this cry allayed?
⁠Canst not, earth, to sleep surrender,
⁠With my weeping stayed?
Dost thou crave another's anguish, that thou lull to rest thy woe?
Stars are hotly dropping tears upon the meads and dales below. . .
⁠O sorrow is thus more tender!
⁠Woe, woe woe. ”

“ Guiding mortals by the hand, as blind sons, dream advances.
—I will weave a nest, O mother, deep within their glances—
⁠Cricket from the grass is prying:
⁠See, O darling, see!
⁠Gently, gently spins the spider
⁠Threadlets three.
⁠Woe, woe, woe has gathered round me,
⁠Black and fierce.
In my breast a green-hued sprig of rose has made a thorn to pierce. ”

“ In this warm, impassioned night, with wreaths of blossoms round it planted,
⁠Frail, alone.
Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to bemoan?
⁠On the woodland branches growing
⁠In the night, a thirsty bud is ”