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The Unmarried Mother

What was the need of you, little one,

My baby dear, my darling son,

To me - a girl, a foolish young thing,

A mother without a wedding ring?

My father cursed and beat me,

My mother in tears would entreat me;

My friends would blush and pass me by,

Strangers pointed at me on the sly.

by France Preseren

A Toast

The vintage, friends, is over,

And here sweet wine makes, once again,

Sad eyes and hearts recover,

Puts fire in every vein,

Drowns dull care

Everywhere

And summons hope out of despair.

To whom with acclamation

by France Preseren

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.

by France Preseren

Gazelle

Let my poem, like a shrine, contain - your name;

In my heart shall ever proudly reign - your name;

Let my cuntrymen hear echoes, east and west,

Of the music in that joyous strain - your name;

On this shrine shall nations henceforth read your fame;

Here it stays to glow and glow again - your name.

When both you and I have crossed in Charon's boat,

by France Preseren

A Farewell To My Youth

O happier half of days decreed to me,

My early years, so soon you passed away:

Few were the flowers that blossomed on that tree,

And they, scarce budded, fell into decay.

Few were the rays of hope that I could see,

And storms would often rage in wild array;

Still, for my youth, dark though thy dawn may be,

My heart will ever cry, God be with thee!

by France Preseren

The Master Theme

A Slovene wreath your poet has entwined;

A record of my pain and of your praise,

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

These tear-stained flowers of a poet's mind.

They come from where no man can sunshine find,

Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days;

Above them savage peaks the mountains raise,

Where tempests roar and nature is unkind.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (9/14)

They were all fed on many a plaint and tear

The humble blooms on my Parnassus grown;

My tears of love flowed not for you alone,

But also for the land I hold so dear.

My soul was filled with bitterness and fear

At love so scant to a trusting Mother shown;

The thought that no more love from you I've known

Torments and tears me like a wound severe.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (10/14)

Frail growth these blossoms had, so sad and few:

As when on some warm February day

An early rose unfolds her petals gay,

Enjoying for a space the sun anew,

But bends her stricken head as soon as due

Storm-driven mists come, and with icy spray

The hoar-frost falls from skies grown cold and grey,

While hill and dale are decked in snowy hue.

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (13/14)

Send but your rays their glory to renew

And let me not look for dawn's light in vain

In your dear face, to hold back night's domain

And calm the wildest storms that ever blew.

Fall with the load of heavy cares I knew,

Their fetters will be loosened, chain by chain,

And all the wounds they caused that still remain

With gentle soothing will be healed by you.

by France Preseren

The Baptism

(an excerpt from the epic The Baptism at The Savica)

The warring clouds have vanished from the skies;

The war of men has ended with the night.

The morning sun gilds the tree heads that rise

Supreme above the Carniola's snowpeaks white.

The lake of Bohinj calm in stillness lies,

No sign of strife remains to outward sight;

Yet in the lake the fierce pike never sleep,

by France Preseren

A Wreath Of Sonnets (14/14)

Fresh flowers will spread fragrance far and near,

Like roses when the winter's passed away,

And spring displays its marvellous array,

While through the trees white scattered blossoms peer.

The bees hum in the air sun-drenched and clear,

The shepherd's up by golden break of day,

Loud trills the nightingale on many a spray -

All nature is aglow with joyful cheer.

by France Preseren

He Who From Fate Receives But Blow On Blow

He who from fate receives but blow on blow,

Who, like myself in her disfavour stands,

Although he had a hundred mighty hands,

Would vainly strive for riches here below.

His paths are strewn with thorns where'er he go;

And where he looks for home there soon expands

A sea of woes: against its stormy strands

by France Preseren