When the wind comes softly creeping,
And awakes my flutes from sleeping,
All my sheep will gather round,
Shedding tears upon the ground.
Lambkin, no word shalt thou tell
In what wise my death befell;
Say I wed a royal bride,
Wooed of all the world beside;
Say that when our faith was given,
A bright star fell out of Heaven;
Sun and moon stood holding there
A marriage-wreath above my hair;
Mountains tall were priests to me;
Guests were pine and alder-tree;
Torches were the flaming stars,
Thousand birds my lute-players.
If thou should'st my mother meet,
With her woolen girdle brown,
And her poor eyes weeping down
Bitter tears; on trembling feet,
Through the meadows hastening,
All the people questioning:
'Who has seen my shepherd-lad?
Is no other like to him,
My young shepherd, straight and slim,
