Bringing water, splitting firewood,
Still it was my daughter's hand;
Now has death her wings unfolded,
Lonely and bereaved I stand.
Where are now the nimble fingers,
Moving finely, moving fast,
As she spun upon the spindle,
Or the knots and meshes cast?—
Death, the sudden thief, he snatch'd her,
As he stole on tiptoe past.