Pledges

The wind was with the roses playing: To Ranko’s tent it blew their leaves: Militza, Ranko, there were staying; And Ranko writes—Militza weaves. His letter done, he drops his pen: Her finish’d web she throws aside: And lo! I heard the lover then Low whisper to his promised bride: “Militza! tell me truly now And dost thou love me—love me best? Or heavy is thy nuptial vow?”— And thus the maid the youth address’d: “O trust me—thou my heart—my soul! That thou art dearer far to me— Far dearer, Ranko! than the whole Of brothers—many though they be: And that the vows we pledged together Are lighter than the lightest feather.”