Her cheeks were sweet, her eyes were mild,
Fair hair’d and saintly look’d the child,
And as I gazed, she seem’d to be
So strange, yet so well known to me.
The beauteous girl, who made all speed,
A song was humming, strange indeed:
“Water, water, quickly run,
“Let the washing soon be done.”
I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou maiden sweet and wondrous fair,
“For whom dost thou this dress prepare?”
Then spake she quickly: “Ready be!
“I’m washing thine own shroud for thee!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.
And still entranced, ere long I stood
Within a desert, gloomy wood:
To reach the skies the branches sought;
I stood amazed, and thought and thought.
And hark! what hollow echoing sound
Like axe-strokes fills the air around
Through waste and wood I speed apace,
Until I reach an open place.
In the green plain before me spread
A mighty oak tree rear’d its head;
And lo! the maiden, strange to see,
Was felling with an axe the tree.
With blow on blow a song she sings
Unceasing, as the axe she swings:
“Iron glittering, iron bright,
“Hew the oaken chest aright.”
I went and stood then in her way,
And whisper’d gently: “Prythee say,
“Thou sweet and wondrous maiden mine,
“For whom dost hew the oaken shrine?”
Then spake she quickly: “Time is short,
“To hew thy coffin is my sport!”—
Scarce had her lips these words let fall,
Like foam the vision vanish’d all.