"Wait, my girl, I want to talk, Though my talk will wound thee!" "Speak, O Youth; I'll listen, speak! Even though thou wound me" "Well, I am about to die." "Die! Where will they bury thee?" "I pray to rest upon thy breast." "Ah! blind and foolish is thy prayer! That were unseemly cemet'ry. My bosom is no graveyard lone, An apple orchard is my breast Where fruits do ripen, birds do rest!" J. W. W.
CVII
TODA AND HER FATE
Many youths paid court to Toda, She, the blithesome shepherd girl; So with mirthful laugh she cried: "The youth on whom my apple falls, 'Tis henceforth he my heart enthralls." Then Toda threw her apple red, Which fell upon a grey-haired head. Toda had not wished such love, So sent him off to draw her water. She sent him thus unto the river, That no more trouble he might give her! But safely back the old man came, Brought the water, smiled and spake: "O love me, Toda, love me, Toda." Toda did not want to love him, So sent him off to cut down branches, Not caring should they fall upon him; But safely back the old man came, Brought the wood, and smiled and spake: "O love me, Toda, little Toda!" Toda did not want to love him, So sent him to the war to fight, Not caring what might be his plight: But safely back the old man came, Back from the war, and spake the same: "O love me, Toda, Toda, love me! That which must be, let it be." J. W. W.
CVIII
THE VILA
Under the clouds there's nought to me So handsome as a falcon bird. A falcon I did wish to be, And my wish by God was heard. High to the clouds I flew, And over the clouds too! Then to a nut-tree I shot down. Under the tree a vila sleeping! Or else some being strange to me! Oh, God Himself, and He alone, can say, But she was fairer than the fairest summer day. J. W. W.
CIX
THREE ROSES
Red Sun! too quickly art thou hasting down; A little while prolong thy stay, Smile from thy evening gate on me, Till I've adorned with roses three— Roses of silk in purest gold— My darling's garment that I hold: The first rose, a rose for my own country dear, The second, a rose for sweet mother, The third, the rose of my own bridal crown. O stay, glad Sun! too quickly art thou going down! J. W. W.