O, that I were with the best of maidens!
In pleasant glades of the mountain side;
With none to hear us but woodland songsters,
I’d kiss my own one with loving pride.
I was a season in foreign regions—
In sunny climes that are far away;
None with thy beauty my eye could find there;
And with the fairest I would not stay.
I will not strive with the tree that bends not,
Though on its branch-tops sweet apples grow;