As my Mother bids me ... O wine-red glow
Of half-waked dreams in the garden of roses ...
Spin, wheel!... fine thread, bright like silk, and thin.
A grey mist steals from the rosy garden
In the heart of wild mountains where no men go ...
To think of the garden they say is sin—
I'll dream no more of King Laurin's garden ...
See! in our meadow green lindens grow....