The green and woody steep is lying still,
All quiet are asps and golden-branched pine-trees
Remembers silent wolf a sniffing light breeze
And watching deer slinking up the hill.
Approaching home - oh, what a dreadful sneer!
The laboured fruit - and could it be more hideous!
The one and real prove of human kindness:
The rows of barbed wire we warily rear.
The surface of the lake as smouth as mirror,
Where anglers are engoing fishing minnow,
Although the bilig has already changed.
There in the shadow of the trees around
Two cemeteries lay upon the range,
And near them - the sunny youngling - town.
Oh, do not blame mistrustful strangers,
Let them repeat the words they have heard
And think my country's variableless,
And see its view all grey and cold.
But come and look! All bright and fluent
The sunbeam's touching leaves again
And wakes the country - light and dewy,
Disproving them who never knew it,
Haven't see it in a proper way.
My city's rising up towards the sunshine
The star's put out by dawn breaking neath;
The rain is touching sleepy branches
As if it has to count all the leaves.
The moist bough is knocking at the window
And leaves the turquoise drops upon the sill
The sunbeam flashes as the wind blows,
Entanglies water threads and makes them thrill.