He takes the clouds to be his steed, the stars to be his bridle,
The moon for escort on his road, and goes his way to bring her.
He leaves the mountains in his wake, he gains the heights before him,
He finds her ’neath the moonlight fair combing her golden tresses.
E’en from afar he bids her hail, cries from afar his message:
—‘Up, Aretoúla, up and come, for lo! our mother needs thee.’
—‘Alack, alack, dear brother mine, what chance hath then befallen?
If haply ’tis an hour of joy, let me go don my jewels,
If bitterness, speak, I will come and tarry not for robing.’
—‘Up, Aretoúla, up and come, and tarry not for robing.’