There I saw out
My twenty-first year,
Sweet in the mouth
The dark, sultry honey.
On the twigs I tore
My white silk dress,
In the bowed pine,
The nightingale never rested.
At the cry of convention,
It flies from its perch,
Like a woodland spirit,
Like a tender sister.
Swiftly climbing the hill,
Swimming over the river,
Yes, and later,
Don’t tell: leave me be.
