Mimosa

An ostrich strides, my spring,
Northwards to us
And a cluster of his light feathers
Fltters in awkward hands.

Spring is welcomed by only a poor
Sallow tree with us.

And my ardent fingers stain themselves
With yellow pollen;
The beggar sings,
Having a handful of gold dust.

In Bohemia the poor are welcomed by only
A poor sallow tree.