Though cometh she never—
Alas, now I know it,
She careth not for me
And mocketh at love!
THE OAK
“Spread wide thy fair branches, and flourish, my Oak,
For to-morrow, to-morrow all will be lost;
To-morrow, to-morrow cometh the frost.
“Make ready, young Cossack, thine arms for the war,
For to-morrow, to-morrow the soldier must go—