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From the French of Hélène Vacaresco
A Roumanian Folk-Song
(while spinning it)
THOU snow-white apple-blossom, | |
| Unto the ground art fallen, | |
| Down to the earth art fallen, | |
| Thou snow-white apple-blossom. | |
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| Snow-white as thou art, so shall be my shroud; | 5 |
| Yea, white as apple-blossoms, | |
| White as a bridal wreath. | |
| Thou wilt be soft for me, my gentle shroud, | |
| Say, wilt thou not? nor chafe my limbs, when I | |
| Have fallen asleep, and know of nothing more; | 10 |
| Whilst in the village houses, round about, | |
| They light the fire without me, and draw near | |
| To tell their tales and spin? | |
| But whilst I sit and spin thee, winding-sheet, | |
| Shall I not tell thee, too, some fairy-tale? | 15 |
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| Thou snow-white apple-blossom, | |
| Down to the earth art fallen, | |
| Unto the ground art fallen, | |
| Thou snow-white apple-blossom. | |
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| Dear winding-sheet of mine, | 20 |
| Well shalt thou cover me | |
| When cold my heart shall be! | |
| But now upon my heart, while yet ’tis warm, | |
| I clasp thee tenderly; | |
| And since thou art to sleep | 25 |
| There in my grave with me, | |
| Then look thy fill once more at this fair earth | |
| That in the grave thou mayst remember her, | |
| And down in that deep grave mayst gladden me | |
| With telling of the earth. | 30 |
| But when thou speakest to me in my grave, | |
| O shroud, O little shroud, | |
| Tell me not of my home, | |
| Nor of my casement, swinging in the wind, | |
| Nor of the moon, that loves | 35 |
| To steal in through that casement; | |
| Nor of the brook, where silver moonbeams bathe, | |
| And where I used to drink. | |
| Tell me not of my mother—tell me not | |
| Of him, the bridegroom chosen out for me. | 40 |
| For then I should be sorry that I slept | |
| Low in the grave with thee, my winding-sheet. | |
| Yet speak to me | |
| As though thou knewest naught of all these things— | |
| Somewhat on this wise: | 45 |
| How that the world is not worth longing for, | |
| For it is always winter there; | |
| How that the moon for sweetheart hath the cloud, | |
| And that my mother mourned me scarce an hour, | |
| And that my bridegroom came not | 50 |
| To lay his fur-cap down upon my grave | |
| That so the soul might think it was her nest. | |
| Speak thus, my shroud, | |
| And soundly will I sleep and heavily | |
| Deep in my grave with thee, | 55 |
| And love thee as the wand’rer loves the well. | |
| Wouldst have me love thee so, speak thus to me. | |
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| Thou snow-white apple-blossom, | |
| Unto the ground art fallen, | |
| Down to the earth art fallen, | 60 |
| Thou snow-white apple-blossom. | |
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