No city merchandise I bring,
Cool now the evening grows,
Show me the rills
Whence thou dost drink,
My good young woman.
Woman
Here, up the rocky path,
Go onward. Through the shrubs
The path runs by the cot
Wherein I dwell,
On to the rills
From whence I drink.
Wanderer
Traces of ordering human hands
Betwixt the underwood.
These stones thou hast not so disposed,
Nature—thou rich dispensatress.
Woman
Yet further up.
Wanderer
With moss o’erlaid, an architrave!
I recognize thee, plastic spirit,
Thou hast impressed thy seal upon the stone.