Classic Poem

I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink from calling her my own.

To sow and reap not — love and keep not — strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd — lov'd, not wedded — luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love — where is her promise now?

I gave a garland — from a farland — and she gave a ring
To her lover — idle treasure — which no love could bring.

To those fair lips, as poppies red, what kisses have I given;
How often round that swan-like maid play'd like the breeze of heaven.

In love's own madness — danc'd with gladness — smil'd but 'twas to sigh:
Nights all-sleepless — chas'd the error — sad and lone was I.

At morning ere the matin bell — and ere the matin prayer
I rose to hear the choral songs of minstrels of the air.

The forests shaded — I invaded — and my hapless eye
Ah! false maiden — wretched lover — saw — O agony!

'Twas in the valley's deepest dell she sat — and not alone;
I heard the vow — I saw the kiss — she smil'd — he said " Mine own."

He fondly press'd her — I address'd her — " Wretched, wretched be;"
Sown not gather'd — lov'd not wedded — luckless doom for me.