"Castles have I, parks and forests,
Mountains veined with the red gold;
And a heart that pineth for thee,
With a wealth of love untold.
"I will deck my love in jewels,
Gold and peril on brow and hand,
Broidered robes and costly girdles,
From the far-off Paynim land.
"Here I hang upon the rose-tree,
Love, a little golden ring;
Wilt thou take it? wilt thou wear it,
Love?" Thus did the Ritter sing.
Then upon his black steed mounting,
Kissed his hand and doffed his plume.
Lovely Thekla stole down gently,
Sought the gold ring in the gloom.
"Little ring, wilt thou deceive me?
Like the rose dost hide a thorn?"
As she takes it, close beside her
Sounds a ringing laugh of scorn.
And the fatal Mother, mocking,
Points her finger to the ring:
"What, my maiden! sold thy beauty
For that paltry glittering thing?
"Plucked the bauble from a rose-tree?
Ring and rose and doom in all;
Roses bright from cheek of beauty,
Roses bright must fade and fall.
"Wilt thou follow me?" They glided
Over heath, through moor and wood,
Till beside an ancient windmill,
In the lone, dark night they stood.
All the mighty wheels were silent,
All the giant arms lay still—
"Bride and wife, but never mother,
Maiden, swear, is such thy will?