Three roses were growing upon a branch

Three roses were growing upon a branch,

fair is the summer;

a nightingale sang charmingly upon it;

fair is the summer!

And beneath the blossoming rose-tree,

there lay a fine lady, deep in dreams;

The knight came through the wood,

My steed, what makes you stop so suddenly?

What is that red glimmer among the green grass?

like roses in all their splendour?

What gleams next to it like bright gold?

They are curled tresses;

The fine lady reclines there without clothing -

just as heaven created her.