Down there under the steep hillside,
A small apple-tree blooms in pride.
Its flowers are fair; its fruit is sweet,
A little maiden sits at its feet.
She tresses garlands of red and white;
On her breast they turn to silver bright.
She lifts her eyes to the heavens vast,
And sees a wide road winding past.
Its borders two like silver gleam,
The middle is a golden stream.