Lo! the maid her rosy cheeks is laving.
Listen! while she bathes her snowy forehead:
“Forehead! if I thought an old man’s kisses
Would be stamp’d upon thee, I would hasten
To the forest, and would gather wormwood:
Into boiling water press its bitters:
With it steep my forehead ev’ry morning,
That the old man’s kiss might taste of wormwood.
But, if some fair youth should come to kiss me,
I would hurry to the verdant garden:
I would gather all its sweetest roses,
Would condense their fragrance,—and at morning,
Every morning, would perfume my forehead:
So the youth’s sweet kiss would breathe of fragrance,
And his heart be gladden’d with the odour.
Better dwell with youth upon the mountains,
Than with age in luxury’s richest palace:
Better sleep with youth on naked granite,
Than with eld on silks howe’er voluptuous!”