Spring has come early to Zagreb. The market tables are scarlet with strawberries, the town woods are in full leaf. On the wide veranda of Dubravkin Put the melancholy waiter serves us English tea with a look of regret that says "This is what you ordered, but our coffee is so much better." The statue of the writer with the unpronounceable name watches us pass on the path that was once his own. His house was there among the trees and his heart was in the city. Life was serious then, every word counted. There was a world to be saved, or set to rights. "Where did it all go wrong?" he seems to ask, speaking in bronze. "Why did I die too soon?"
Speaking in Bronze.
Stead, C.K.
Spring has come early to Zagreb. The market tables are scarlet with strawberries, the town woods are in full leaf. On the wide veranda of Dubravkin Put the melancholy waiter serves us English tea with a look of regret that says "This is what you ordered, but our coffee is so much better." The statue of the writer with the unpronounceable name watches us pass on the path that was once his own. His house was there among the trees and his heart was in the city. Life was serious then, every word counted. There was a world to be saved, or set to rights. "Where did it all go wrong?" he seems to ask, speaking in bronze. "Why did I die too soon?"