Wine, No. 18

In the spring, ah happy day! Underneath a leafy spray With her sister stands my may. O sweet love! He who now is reft of thee Poor is he!

Ah, the trees, how fair they flower Birds are singing in the bower; Maidens feel of love the power. O sweet love!

See the lilies, how they blow! And the maidens row by row Praise the best of gods below. O sweet love!

If I held my sweetheart now, In the wood beneath the bough, I would kiss her, lip and brow. O sweet love! He who now is reft of thee, Poor is he!