Drooping her eyes,
Looking long into the skyblue lake,
The willow stands on her island.
Tears are falling gently;
You cannot see them . . .
What could comfort her?
Some day a wind will blow
A western wind . . .
Out of heaven's bosom
A breeze will come flying with a harp around its neck. . .
Into the willow branches it will fly
And the harp will sing a happy tune.
I know how they sing,
Those harps of the wind,
When the wind is sorry
Or puzzled!
