FROM THE ITALIAN OF GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO

W E were seven sisters,
Seven, and all were fair.
We looked into the fountains,
Each of us was fair.

" Flower of rushes makes no bread,
Mulberry blossom makes no wine,
Threads of grass no linen fine, "
The mother to the sisters said.

We looked into the fountains,
Each of us was fair.

The eldest was for spinning
And wanted spindles of gold;
The second was for weaving
And wanted shuttles of gold;
The third was for sewing
And wanted needles of gold;

The fourth was for serving
And wanted cups of gold;
The fifth was for sleeping
And wanted pillows of gold;
The sixth was for dreaming
And wanted dreams of gold;
The little one was for singing,
The youngest of them all,
For singing, only singing,
And wanted nothing at all.

" Flower of rushes makes no bread,
Mulberry blossom makes no wine,
Threads of grass no linen fine, "
The mother to the sisters said.

We looked into the fountains,
Each of us was fair.

And the eldest sister span,
Twisting spindle and heart;
And the second sister wove,
And she wove a web of pain;
And the third sister sewed,
Making a poisoned shift;
And the fourth sister served,

And she served a tainted dish;
And the fifth sister slept,
Slept on the pillow of death;
And the sixth sister dreamed,
Dreamed in the arms of death.
The mother wept in pain,
Wept for the evil fate;
But the youngest one who sang,
Singing early and late,
Singing, only singing,
Had ever a happy fate.