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Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself

in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty

road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading

my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers,

one by one, and my basket is nearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening

my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and

smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing

my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I

drop my eyes and answer them not.

Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that

thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I

keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the

secret of my heart.