My heart's best beloved, he takes it not.
There where I sit by my door and spin,
While morning winds that blow out and in
With scent of roses enfold the spot,
When at evening I softly sing my lay,
That the wand'rer hears, as he goes his way—
My heart's best beloved, he hears it not.
There, where on Sunday I go alone
To the old, old well with the milk-white stone,
Where by the fence, in a nook forgot,