Classic Poem

Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall harvest thee?
For my lover lingers far —
Will not come to me.

Blade of wheat! thou golden blade,
Who shall bind thee round?
For my lover lingers far —
Where shall he be found?

M OTHER ! mother! mother mine!
Changeful is my heart,
Cleanse, O mother mine, away
All its fickle part.

O N my feet my slippers seem,
Made of heavy lead —
Mother, mother, mother mine!
I would hide my head.

Y OUNG and radiant oak-tree, why,
Young and verdant oak?
Why dost turn on me — on me
Such an angry look?

" N AY ! no angry look on thee
Turn I — yet I may
Mourn thou art so fickle — maid!
So the people say. "