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.