Page:Bohemian legends and other poems.djvu/152



All day long, My wheel strong, Drives the flaxen thread along. From the linen what will be? He who waits will surely see— A shirt as white as lily.

Weaver mine, Take this twine, Weave it quickly, weaver mine. Linen thin, and soft and white; Maiden shirts, for my delight— For his mother, see, a shroud.