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.