The maiden stood by the mountain slope

The maiden stood by the mountain slope;

the mountain reflected her face,

and the maiden spoke to her reflection:

"Truly, my face, O you my worry,

if, my pale face, I knew

that someday an old man would kiss you,

then I would go to the green mountain,

pick all the wormwood in the mountains,

press the bitter water out of the wormwood,

and wash you, O my face, with that water,

so that you would be bitter when the old man kissed you!

But if, my pale face, I knew

that someday a young man would kiss you,

then I would go to the green garden,

pick all the roses in the garden,

press the fragrant water out of the roses,

and wash you, O my face, with that water,

so that you would be fragrant when the youth kissed you!"