Are powerless to make her sad.
Then hence she goes, by the small plank over the river
The plank that sways to her step.
The willows bow down their heads, and bend as she passes...
And morning cometh, and findeth me poor and trembling,
Since she hath taken my all from me, even my songs.
Yet is she not content, nor will cease from asking,
Whether I love her still.
I tell the forest the wonders I see in my dreams
And the forest loves to hear the tale of my dreaming,