Otokar Březina

“ Her days had not the hue, the scent, the splendor of o bloom;
She plucked an arid fruit, whose ashen taste was spent
For nourishment from off the tree of doom.
Into her cheeks poverty’s keen edged dust its beauty seared,
And into her eyes, where years but cooled the inflamed pain,
Then as a torrid simoon at her feet it swirled and reared
Allowing her in its waves her exhausted strength to gain.
Beneath the burden of dark years she bent her back,
Labor’s corrosive heat drained freshness from her banks ”