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France Preseren - A Wreath Of Sonnets (6/14)
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Unblest by soothing winds of warmer days, 
My songs remain, since from you, haughty maid, 
They never won the word that might be said - 
The word that neither saddens nor dismays.

As you were bred upon the German phrase, 
Like many a Slovene girl, they were afraid 
That from such flowers on our Parnassus laid 
With cold disdain you would avert your gaze.

Our Muses were not loved in our own land: 
They were but spinsters doomed to lonely ways, 
While foreign beauties won both heart and hand.

Like flowers that bud within the glacier`s maze, 
Our songs are sparse, as though by nature banned, 
Above them savage peaks the mountains raise.
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