And autumn mists about it creep,
The river maids all shivering leave
The stream, and singing, sink to sleep.
The keen-toothed wind, the bitter snow
Alike are impotent to break
The spell of sleep that laid them low—
The lovely ladies will not wake.
But when the spring with lavish grace
Strews blossom on the river's breast,
Flowers fall upon each sleeping face