I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown

I've sown the millet, yet I dare not reap the millet sown,
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink fromm calling her my own.

To saw and reap not-love and keep not—strange and sad decree;
Sown, not gather'd—lov'd, not wedded—luckless doom for me.

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the mountain brow,
My maiden swore eternal love—where is her promise now?

I gave a garland—from a farland—and she gave a ring
To her lover—idle treasure—which no love could
bring.

To those fair lips, as poppies red, what kisses have I given;
How often round that swan-like maid play'd like the breeze of heaven.

In love's own madness—danc'd with gladness—smil'd but 'twas to sigh:
Nights all-sleepless—chas'd the error—sad and lone was I.

At morning ere the matin bell—and ere the matin prayer
I rose to hear the choral songs of minstrels of the air.

The forests shaded—I invaded—and my hapless eye
Ah! false maiden—wretched lover—saw—O agony!

'Twas in the valley's deepest dell she sat—and not alone;
I heard the vow—I saw the kiss—she smil'd—he said 'Mine own'

He fondly press'd her—I address'd her—'Wretched, wretched be;'
Sown not gather'd—lov'd not wedded—luckless doom for me.