Classic Poem

I

From a lover's trysting came the maiden,
With red hands she came. Her mother asked her:
“Wherefore are your hands so red, my daughter?”
And the girl said, “I've been plucking roses,
And the thorns have pricked me as I plucked them.”
From her love-tryst came once more the maiden,
With red lips she came. Her mother asked her:
“Wherefore are your lips so red, my daughter?”
And the girl said, “Raspberries I've eaten,
And they stained my lips as I was eating.”
From her love-tryst once again the maiden
Came, with pallid cheek. Her mother asked her:
“Wherefore is your cheek so pale, my daughter?”
But the girl said, “Make my grave, O mother,
Hide me there and set a cross above me,
Carve upon the cross what I shall tell you:
“Red her hands were at the first returning,
'Twas within a lover's hands they reddened,
Red her lips were at the next returning,
'T was beneath a lover's lips they reddened.
Pale her lips were at the last returning,
They were pale because her love was faithless.”

II

Spring's first flowers are the first to wither,
And the brook's first bubbles first are broken:
But thy heart's first love, O youthful bosom,
Far outlives whatever loves may follow.

X

In the park a pair of finches nested.
Through the spring the male was ever singing,
Through the summer oft he would be silent,
And when autumn came he ceased completely.
Why?—Because as long as springtime lasted
He had naught to think of but his sweetheart;
But with summer vexing cares drew nigh him,
Worries for his home and tender offspring;
And when autumn came and days grew chilly
Forth toward other climes went all his longing.

XIII

Over the fence the lad
Leaned by the girl he loved,
Looked on the wasted field:
“Summer has fled away,
Flowers are withered now;
But still your cheek is bright,
Roses and lilies there
Blossom as formerly.”
Spring came once more, and then
Lonely the lover stood:
Gone was the girl—she lay
Withered in earth's embrace;
Green was the field again,
Smiling and blossom-clad.

XVI

Counsels three the mother gave her daughter:
Not to sigh, not to be discontented,
Not to give a kiss to any lover.
Mother, if your daughter disobey not
In the last of these three things you counsel,
She will disobey in both the others.

XVII

On the Even of St. John the maiden
Winds on three green wheat-stalks nigh to budding
Silken threads, each of a different color;
Then she goes upon the morn thereafter
To the place to know her future fortune.
Well and good. But hearken how she does it:
If the black, the stalk of grief, has budded,
She will tell, and share her grief with others.
If the red, the stalk of joy, has budded,
She will tell, and share her joy with others,
If the green, the stalk of love, has budded,
She will hide her joy within her bosom.