Larenopfer

The Poor Girl

57 tHE Poor GirL i know a girl with fallen cheek, her mother such a flimsy thing. The father’s curses oft would ring when she would try to speak. For years was poverty her fare, and hunger followed her in ways that made her grave. —The golden rays of spring were wasted on her hair. She sadly gazes at the smiling flower faces in the hedge of clay and thinks: so too it is on All Souls’ day that flowers bloom and lights are shining. WHEn SPrinG ArriVES These early buds, so tender, mark in golden gleams their recrudescence. Hear the horse-drawn coaches’ presence in Stromovka Park. The migratory birds now hark again to their familiar branches. Soon resounds the band with happy airs here, in Stromovka Park. Spring breezes whisper in new art the old mysterious legends, while young lovers dream and smile already in Stromovka Park. ...