# Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse/Nocturne

VLADIMIR NAZOR.
1. NOCTURNE.
Gently, gently, gently, spider Spins a thread; Where the fir-trees slimly loom, in woods, the stag has laid his head; Night, the silent, lofty, presses O'er the land with silvery glazes, And a quenchèd lamp she raises From the water's deep recesses. Guiding mortals by the hand, as blind sons, dream advances. —I will weave a nest, O mother, deep within their glances— Cricket from the grass is prying: See, O darling, see! Gently, gently spins the spider Threadlets three.
Woe, woe, woe has gathered round me, Black and fierce. In my breast a green-hued sprig of rose has made a thorn to pierce. And my sobbing, sobbing, sobbing In this lustrous night doth scatter; Pearly tear-drops downward patter; With restive wings I set them throbbing:
They are shaken, pitter-patter On a marble platter.
O thou green-hued sprig of rose, within thy barb a store of pain is, And my bosom is so frail, and in this woe a store of bane is! From my heart the blood-drops patter: Tap, tap, tap. . . In that thorn from off the rose-tree poisoned is the sap. Can the moon reveal no splendour, Or the night-bloom scent engender. With this cry allayed? Canst not, earth, to sleep surrender, With my weeping stayed?
Dost thou crave another's anguish, that thou lull to rest thy woe? Stars are hotly dropping tears upon the meads and dales below. . . O sorrow is thus more tender! Woe, woe woe.
Night with potent spell enchants my Woodland calm. Where, O where art thou, enchantress? Thee thy friend calls with a psalm! Hearken: chiming, chiming, chiming,— Jasmin-calyx, scarce unfolded, Lily-calyx, bigly moulded;
Hearken: whirring, whirring, whirring Of the juniper's green windle, Of forget-me-not's blue spindle! Blossoms scatter waves of fragrance in this peaceful night. O enchantress, hither, hither: Now our troth we plight! Cricket from the grass is prying: See, O maiden, see! Where our bed is softly lying Gently spins the spider Fibres three.
I am in this dim, deep night-time All alone. Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to bemoan? Prithee, drench with wet caresses, Dewdrop, wisps of elfin-tresses! Prithee, drench, thou radiant shimmer, Shepherd's-pouches with thy glimmer! I am singing, singing, singing starry rays. In my anguished breast have nestled all the glories that are May's: Every nook the wreath containeth, Every kiss the petal gaineth; Sweetest fragrance that in billowings arises, That is wafted, that is twirled in curving guises, That is rocking, that is swinging, To the moth's and insect's winging;
Breath of earth that sinks to rest in warm embraces, And the quiver of the stars in flashing traces: Throbbing, lustre, perfume, surging Heave their billows like an ocean With my bosom merging!
I am singing, singing, singing in this night that is enchanted, In this warm, impassioned night, with wreaths of blossoms round it planted, Frail, alone. Unto whom my joy to utter and my sorrow to bemoan? On the woodland branches growing In the night, a thirsty bud is; And my wounded heart is strowing Drop by drop, the dew,—that blood is,— Gently flowing.
Spider weave, O weave a net stoutly blended! Gently, gently, lest thy fibre be rended! There this night thou show'st no pity To thy spoil! Round these slender threads my ditty Too, shall coil!
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