VIII
To her little brother the Duchess cried:
“Brother, I pray thee, saddle thy horse!
Haste to the fields that stretch so wide,
Get for me the horses black,
Drive them before thee on the way back.
Then let them loose among my flowers.
Let them browse as around they course,
And what they eat not in my bowers
The while they do in my garden stay
On their clutching hoof they may carry away.
Let the stamping feet on my flowers fall
That none be left when I am gone;
No joy be there for my bridesmaids all—
So lonesome Mother won’t weep for me:
‘There are her flowers—but where is she!’”