They planted rosemary on her grave;
Weeping he followed his sweetheart's hearse.
His tears were dew where grave grasses wave:
"Return my love or have my curse!"
Her linen chemise none will wash now,
Except the rain of his weeping eyes;
The tangled curls on her pallid brow
No one will caress with soothing sighs.
Again at Tarja the bells ring slow—
For the youth himself they sadly toll.