HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going?
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing?
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you?
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?
Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going,
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing;
To the köil—haunted river—isles where lotus lilies glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!
Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure,
Of bridal—songs and cradle—songs and sandal—scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing,
Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going?
The bridal—songs and cradle—songs have cadences of sorrow,
The laughter of the sun to—day, the wind of death to—morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest—notes where forest—streams are falling;
O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy—folk are calling.