A Wreath Of Sonnets (2/14)

A record of my pain and of your praise

Will this be to Slovenes as yet unborn,

When moss shall grow upon my tomb forlorn,

And over all that grieves me and dismays;

And haughty maids with beauty to amaze

Like yours, on hearing these my strains, will scorn

To lock their hearts in armour; they'll adorn

Their love with faithful thoughts and faithful ways.

For all Slovenes will then dawn brighter days

And kindlier stars upon their land will gaze,

More brilliant songs will come with better times.

Yet my songs, too, with sweetly flowing rhymes

May still survive the future's changing phase,

Since from my heart's deep roots have sprung these lays.