Storms

Why are thy long black tresses always dripping, O maiden?
My hair is wet with my tears and the water that drowned my lover.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In anger they parted. The heavens also were wrathful.
Dark was the lake, but darker their hearts within them.
The lover went to his fishing: the maid to her spinning.
Drowned in the storm was he. Her reason went with him.
. . . . . . . .
Now, folks say, she wanders by night to see him.
Under the waves, hand in hand, all the long night-tide
They fare together (thus say the old folks).
The fishes go through their hair and against their pale faces.
Cold as that touch are the kisses they give each other.
(The old folks tell it.)
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Why are thy long black tresses always dripping, O maiden?
My hair is wet with my tears and the water that drowned my lover.
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