HE slept beneath a poplar tree:
And three young maidens cross’d the way;
I listened to the lovely three,
And heard them to each other say:—
“Now what is dearest, love! to thee?”
The eldest said—‘Young Ranko’s ring
Would be to me the dearest thing.’
“No! not for me,” the second cried;
“I’d choose the girdle from his side.”
‘Not I,’ the youngest said—‘In truth,
I’ll rather have the sleeping youth.
The ring, O sister! will grow dim,
The girdle will ere long be broken;
But this is an eternal token,—
His love for me, and mine for him.’