Reckless in the moment’s grave;
And the maids that tend the household,
With a bitter eye of weeping,
See the treasured store of summers
Hurried by the barren wave.
Woe, deep woe, waits captive maidens,
To an untried thraldom led,
Bound, by chains of forced affection,
To some haughty husband’s bed:
Sooner, sooner may I wander