O unto the pine-woodAt noon of dayCome with me now,Sweet love, away.
His hand is underHer smooth round breast;So he who has sorrowShall have rest.
O Sweetheart, hear youYour lover‘s tale;A man shall have sorrowWhen friends him fail.
But one unto himWill softly moveAnd softly woo himIn ways of love.
For he shall know thenFriends be untrueAnd a little ashesTheir words come to.
