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      Jan KochanowskiLamentsLament VIIItłum. Dorothea Prall


      Thou hast made all the house an empty thing,

      Dear Ursula, by this thy vanishing.

      Though we are here, 'tis yet a vacant place,

      One little soul had filled so great a space.


      For thou didst sing thy joyousness to all,

      Running through every nook of house and hall.

      Thou wouldst not have thy mother grieve, nor let

      Thy father with too solemn thinking fret

      His head, but thou must kiss them, daughter mine,


      And all with that entrancing laugh of thine!

      Now on the house has fallen a dumb blight:

      Thou wilt not come with archness and delight,

      But every corner lodges lurking grief

      And all in vain the heart would seek relief.

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