Classic Poem

In the garden beside the water
Barwenok will not grow.
Nor will the maiden to the river go—
The miller's daughter,
Her pails to fill.

In the garden beside the water
She spread to dry, one day,
Seeds of the fragrant, pungent caraway.
The miller's daughter
She comes no more.

In the garden beside the water
A tree is bending down.
The maiden, idle, in the sombre gown,
The miller's daughter
Is troubled sore.

In the garden beside the water
She doth bemoan her fate.
A man is standing by the garden gate.
The miller's daughter
Hears his low laugh.