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FOLK-SONGS OF ROUMANIA. 315
instrumentation, in a way that the most skillful composers have failed to do, and shows the element of poetry and passion in that strange and exotic race. What stronger beauty of expression or grace of feeling can be found than this ? —
There where the path to the plain goes by, Where deep in the thicket my hut doth lie, Where corn stands green in the garden plot — The brook ripples by so clearly there, The way is so open, so white, and fair — My heart's best beloved, he takes it not.
There where I sit by my door and spin, While morning winds that blow out and in With scent of roses enfold the spot, When at evening I softly sing my lay, That the wand'rer hears, as he goes his way — My heart's best beloved, he hears it not.
There, where on Sunday I go alone
To the old, old well with the milk-white stone,
Where by the fence, in a nook forgot,
Rises a spring in the daisied grass,
That makes whoso drink of it love — alas !
My heart's best beloved, he drinks it not.
There, by my window, where day by day,
When the sunbeams first brighten the morning gray,
I lean and dream of my weary lot,
And wait his coming, and softly cry
Because of love's longing that makes one die —
My heart's best beloved, he dieth not.