VISHNIA! {157a} lovely vishnia!
Lift thy branches higher;
For beneath thy branches,
Vilas {157b} dance delighted:
While Radisha {157c} dashes
From the flow’rs the dewdrops.
Vilas two conveying,
To the third he whispers:
“O be mine, sweet Vila!
Thou, with mine own mother,
In the shade shalt seat thee;
Silken vestments spinning,
Weaving golden garments.”