The red rose

The warrior's bride is sitting so lonely at her open window.

Sick at heart, yet her fingers are deftly working, weaving a snowwhite rose.

She has pricked her tender flesh!

Her blood on the budding rose has trickled, and it is now a crimson flower.

All her thoughts do follow him, her lover brave, so far away fighting

and whose life blood perchance now reddens the snow.

Now she hears a steed's gallop from far...

Oh my beloved, do you come at last?

'Tis only her heart that throbs in her breast so wildly beating...

Over her work she lower bends her sorrowing eyes,

and she embroiders in silver all the tears which fell on her rosebud crimson.