Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | October 14, 2008


by Adam Mickiewicz (1798 – 1855).




The flag is listless, limp. It dances not.

As deep the sea breathes from a gentle breast

As any bride who dreams at love’s behest,

And wakes and sighs, then casts with dreams her lot.

Sails hang upon the masts–useless–forgot–                               5

Like folded standards which the warriors wrest

And bring home broken from the battle’s crest.

The sailors rest them in some sheltered spot.


O Sea! within your unknown deeps concealed,

When storms are wild, your monsters dream and sleep,       10

And all their cruelty for the sunlight keep.

Thus, Soul of Mine, in your sad deeps concealed

The monsters sleep–when wild are storms. They start

From out some blue sky’s peace to seize my heart.








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