The rose-wreath

By the bed of rosebushes

she picked roses for a wreath;

fiery, they all sparkled

around in dewy splendour.

Rose after rose dropped into the basket,

purple-red and bright like silver.

It is true that you are sacred to the Graces,

she sang, you blossoming there;

but why do you wilt

and wither so quickly?

Those that were standing open just a moment ago,

will soon be blowing in the wind.

You red-streaked bud,

trembling you gaze into your grave

and a pearly little drop

hangs down like a tear.

Remain - you should rejoice in the sunshine

of fleeting life.

Tarrying with deep emotion,

the maiden wove the wreath

in the secrecy of the grove,

all love and tenderness.

When she put the wreath on her head,

what bliss it was for me that I arrived at that moment.