The Bard of the Dimbovitza

  The night is cometh, let thy spindle be. 
  Those who went by this way 
  Spoke of their huts together, and the huts 
  Seemed far, so far away. 

What saw'st thou at the bottom of the well ? -- 
I saw my face, my bodice, and my chain. -- 
Child, didst thou see aught else ? -- 
I saw there at the bottom of the well 
  A man who wept. 
My face, down there, was sore afraid of him ; 
And all the water in the well was naught 
  But this man's tears. 
I was afraid, and would not draw those tears. 
Then came a woman, and I went aside, 
But yet I saw, how she drew up those tears. 
And how she drank them, looking all the while 
  Up at the sky. 
Then with her apron she did wipe her lips, 
And went from thence -- and I, too, went my way. 

  The night is cometh, let thy spindle be. 
  Those who went by this way 
  Spoke of their huts together, and the huts 
  Seemed far, too far away.

There where the path to the plain goes by
Where deep in the thicket my hut doth lie
Where corn stands green in the garden plot,
The brook ripples by so clearly there,
The way is open so white and fair,
My heart’s best beloved he takes it not.

There where I sit by my door and spin
While morning winds that blow out and in
With scent of roses enfold the spot.
When at evening I softly sing my lay
That the wand’rer hears as the goes his way
My heart’s best beloved he hears me not.

There where on Sundays I go alone
To the old, old well with the milk-white stone
Where by the fence in a nook forgot
Rises a spring in the daisied grass
That make who drinks of it love alas!
My heart’s best beloved he drinks it not.

There by my window where day by day
When the sunbeams first brighten the morning’s grey
I lean and dream of my weary lot
And wait his coming and softly cry
Because of love’s longing that makes one die,
My heart’s best beloved he dieth not.

My girdle I hung on a tree-top tall,
  So the songs of the birds, it hears them all. 

O maiden, who gave thee those lips so red, 
That smile, and those songs ? -- 
                                -- Lad, what is it to thee 
Or why wouldst thou know who hath given them me ? -- 
-- And whither, O maiden, so fast art thou sped ? 
To the plum-tree groves in the valley below,
Or there, where the orchards of apple-trees grow 
Overhanging the cliff? -- 
                         -- Lad, what is it to thee, 
Since it is not thou that shall go with me ? -- 

My girdle I hung on a tree-top tall,
  So the songs of the birds, it hears them all. 

O maiden,  ...  what in thy heart dost thou bear ? 
A song, or a love ? -- 
                      -- Lad, what is it to thee ? 
If there's one  ...  I love, sure, thou art not he. -- 
Where wouldst thou I died of my love, then, where? 
By the river, where over me flowers shall weep?
In the hut, where the mother who lulled me to sleep,
Shall sing me my dirge ? --
                            --Lad, what is it to me,
Since I am not going to weep over thee? --

My girdle I hung on a tree-top tall,
  So the songs of the birds, it hears them all.

The daughter:
What didst thou mother when thou wert a maiden?

The mother:
I was young.

The daughter:
Didst thou, like me,
Hark to the moon’s soft footfalls across the sky,
Or didst thou watch the little star’s betrothals?

The mother:
Thy father cometh home,
Leave the door open.

The daughter:
Down to the fountain, didst thou go and there thy wooden pitcher filled
Didst thou yet linger another hour
With the full pitcher by thee?

The mother:
I was young.

The daughter:
And did thy tears make glad thy countenance?
And didst thy sleep bring gladness to the night?
And didst thy dreams bring gladness to thy sleep?
And didst thou smile even by graves
Despite thy pity, thy pity for the dead?

The mother:
Thy father cometh home,
Leave the door open.

The daughter:
Lovedst thou strawberries and raspberries
Because they are as red as maiden’s lips?
Didst love the girdle for it’s many pearls
The river and the wood, because they lie so close
behind the village?
Didst love the beating of the heart
There close beneath thy bodice
Even although t’were not thy Sunday bodice?

The mother:
Thy father cometh home
Leave the door open.

What hath he done the luckless fellow
That thou wilt speak to him no more?
Are ye not of the self-same village?
Why wilt thou sister not sit down by me
And what awaitest thou to stand so long?
Look down the way no longer,
Watch the old well no longer,
But rather hearken to me the while I sing.
What hath he done, the luckless fellow
That thou wilt speak to him no more?
Are ye not of the self-same village?

Down to the riverside we went together.
He said: ‘Now hearken, hearken to the wind that rustles thro’ the leaves’.
I said ‘O see, O see the merry sunshine that shineth thro’ the wavelet’.
He said ‘I love, I swear I love a woman whom thou knowest not’.
I said ‘I love, I swear, I love a lad 
of whom thou knowest naught’.
He said ‘That woman ceaseless weeps for me’.
And I replied ‘That lad awaiteth me’.
Then from the river we went hence together.

And I, I knew full well that he was my lad
And he, he surely knew 
I was that woman.
But yet because of all that sunshine in the water
And of the wind that rustled thro’ the leaves
We both were silent.
We kept silence both.

What hath he done the luckless fellow
That thou wilt speak to him no more?
Are ye not of the self-same village?