Classic Poem

O WILD horses—where are ye running over the steppes?
Where is she—the maid with the lovers three?
Where is that wheat which bloomed with a white flower?
Where is the maiden with beauty of black eyebrows?
Where is the wheat—Can I not reap it?
Where is the damsel—Can I not wed her?
. . . . . . .

“I had not come her gates within,
Nor sat me down her bread to break—
I stood without on the threshold bare:
She had poison ready in wheaten cake.”
. . . . . . .

On a Thursday morn the Soldier came:
On the Thursday noon the youth lay dead.
On the Friday to the open grave
Before his bier his horse they led.

Behind his corse his mother wept.…
The maiden's mother thus did chide:
“O daughter mine! What hast thou done?
Was it through thee thy lover died?”

“My mother dear, what was to do?
My heart could find no other way.
My soldier love had sweethearts two—
So lies he cold upon this day.

“I would not have him—so he died—
I would not have him—he sleeps sound.
Nor shall she ever in this world
Hold him who lies in the damp ground.”