My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
It will not, will not rest! poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there:
The little brooks that seem all pastime and at play
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep—and at break of day I will come to thee again.
As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.
Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
Nay, said I, more than half to the damsel must belong;
For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.