Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/124

 Fleets the Vila, homeward now Doth the maid returning go; Tossing scornfully her head, O’er the path the leaves she spread.

Then at home the tale she told, As her apron she doth fold, Ah! but how astonish’d she, Gold and silver sheen to see!

Then she knows the Vila white Would the service small requite, Silver leaves of hawthorn free Golden from the old oak-tree.

Quiet can she not attain, Till the leaves she seeks again, But the leaves alas! are gone, And the maiden weeps alone.