Of beauty

Young maidens pick flowers,

pick lotus flowers at the water's edge.

Among bushes and leaves they sit,

Gathering blossoms in their laps and calling

to one another teasingly.

Golden sunlight weaves about the figures,

mirroring them in the shiny water.

The sun reflects their slender limbs,

their sweet eyes,

and the zephyr lifts caressingly

the fabric of their sleeves, wafting the magic

of their lovely fragrance through the air.

Oh see what handsome young men disport themselves

there along the shore on their lively horses,

glittering out into the distance like sunbeams;

already among the branches of the green willows,

the fresh-faced young men are approaching at a trot!

The horse of one whinnies merrily

and shies and rushes away;

over flowers and grass, its hooves fly,

trampling fallen blossoms in its stormy flight.

Ah, how wildly its mane flutters in its frenzy,

how hotly its nostrils steam!

The golden sun weaves about the figures,

mirroring them in the shiny water.

And the fairest of the maidens sends

long, yearning glances after him.

Her proud demeanour is mere pretense.

In the flash of her large eyes,

in the darkness of her ardent gaze,

the agitation of her heart lingers, lamenting.