XXXIX
Josef Štýbr translation
It seemed to me—Grief had grown old, Soon would come its last countin’, And tears—so many had been shed That dry must be their fountain. Then suddenly I thought of Thee, And soon my whole soul shivered, And as though I should lose Thee soon An echo in it quivered. And mine eyes promptly filled with tears, My joy to grief is bending, And I am finding out with pain That tears shall have no ending.