For Roza
For Roza, I had felt no stir,
when to the grove we went together;
in smoke we spoke, in whirling air —
of what, I can’t recall—no, never.
Cold as the stones along the way,
I stepped about, all lost, unsure;
I spoke of trees and blooms in May —
her gaze seemed asking: “Nothing more?”
The fence became our shelter low,
on dewy pearls the dawnlight gleamed;
my ears were tuned to bees that blow,
hers to the nightingales that dreamed.
A clueless boy to feelings deep,
she twenty—woman nearly grown,
the nightingales would sing and weep,
and lilacs bloomed for her alone.
She reached her hand to pluck, so slight,
some berry, fruit — I couldn’t tell;
her arm I missed, so pure, so white —
I only guessed it shone as well.
The moss, as soft as silken thread,
slid down beneath our careless tread;
the woods lay still, with yearning fed,
till all the grove with sighs was spread.
She loosed the straps upon her feet,
and bared one leg, so pale and neat,
to dip it in the icy brook —
yet I knew not where I should look.
No golden words my lips could say,
I only trailed her, lost in dream;
now watching when she sighed that way,
now when her smile began to gleam.
Of course I lost her from my hand;
and as we left that place apart,
she whispered: “Forget me.” — Grand…
but she alone still fills my heart.
