Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/195

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Sil sem proso na sauwrati, nebudu ho žjti.

 

I've sown the millet,^[1] yet I dare not reap the millet sown,

I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink fromm calling her my own.

 

To saw 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.

 

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1. Na sauwrati—On the edge of the field.