POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
THE LOVER—IN STRAWBERRY TIME
While I pick the berries sweet
In the woods near where you live.
Oh, Kohanka, let us meet—
Happiness to me you'll give.
Kokhanits, I've much to do,
I've no time to roam about—
Not an hour to play with you
Lest my fire may go out,
Oh, Kohanka, how you slave!
You would surely lose your life
If forevermore you gave
All your time to clean a knife.
I was born, O vagrant one,
Not to sit in rocking-chair;
Happier I when all is done
Than a rich man's daughter fair.
She has but her hair to curl—
I make all things fair to see.
Work has never killed a girl;
Work will never finish me.
THE DAY BEFORE THE WEDDING
The bride sings to her lover:
Broad were the leaves on the lofty tree—
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