I know a glade, spring crystal clear,
in deepest woodland, crowned
by shady ferns in silhouettes,
red heather all around.
There thirsty hinds and songbirds sip,
by the old sycamore,
the birds by blazing light of day,
the hinds by night, no more.
Once the deep woods to dreams succumb,
everything hushed and still,
the heaven’s dome and woodland spring
with golden starlight fill
From czech writer Jósef Vaclav Sládek
