THE wind was with the roses playing:
To Ranko’s tent it blew their leaves:
Militza, Ranko, there were staying;
And Ranko writes—Militza weaves.
His letter done, he drops his pen:
Her finish’d web she throws aside:
And lo! I heard the lover then
Low whisper to his promised bride:
“Militza! tell me truly now
And dost thou love me—love me best?
Or heavy is thy nuptial vow?”—
And thus the maid the youth address’d:
“O trust me—thou my heart—my soul!
That thou art dearer far to me—
Far dearer, Ranko! than the whole
Of brothers—many though they be:
And that the vows we pledged together
Are lighter than the lightest feather.”