The Fisher Maiden.
67
and not knowing what further he wanted, only feeling that he ought now to leave, went away.
At midnight she still stood by her open loft window with the chain in her hand. The friendly autumn night lay spread over town and fjord and distant mountains; from the street resounded the Spanish song; for the singing society had gone home with Yngve Vold. Word for word the song could be heard; it was about a beautiful wreath. Only two of the voices sang the words; the others imitated a guitar accompaniment:—
“Take this wreath, thou fairest maiden,All with fragrant kisses laden!Freshest leaves and fluttering grasses,To the brightest of young lasses.Snowy lilies, frail and light,To a flower more pure and white;Crimson buds, that long to blow,To a rose of richer glow.Blossoms sweetest, blossoms rarest,To the best beloved, the fairest!Take this wreath, thou dearest maiden,All with fragrant kisses laden!”
When she opened her eyes the next morning, she thought she had been wandering in a forest filled through and through with sunshine, and where all the trees were of the kind we call golden shower,[1] and hung in long, bright
- ↑ The laburnum tree.
