And phantom-like my pathway crossed—
Saying, 'In a chilly bed,
Low and dark, but full of peace,
For your coming, softly spread,
Is the dead lamb’s snowy fleece.’”
Passed the sweetest of all eves—
Morn was breaking for our flocks;
“Let us go and bind the sheaves,
All the slim and golden stocks;
Wake, my Wurtha, wake”—but still