I’ll spin and weave me a winding-sheet,
To wrap me up from the sun’s clear light,
And hide my form from her wounded sight.
In secret then, till my end draws nigh,
I’ll toil for her; and when I die,
I’ll leave behind, as a farewell boon,
To the proud young princess, my whole cocoon,
To be reeled and wove to a shining lace,
And hung in a veil o’er her scornful face!
And when she can calmly draw her breath