The Anaconda Standard

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 freshly there,
The way is so open, so white, so fair-
My heart's best beloved, he treads it not.

There, where I spin at my door without,
And morning winds, whisp'ring round about,
With scent of roses infolded the spot;
Where I sit at even and sing my lay
Quite low, to the wand'rer who 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,
There rises a spring in the daisied grass
That makes whoso drinks of it love alas!
My heart's best beloved, he drinks it not.

There, by my window, where day by day
When sunbeams first brighten the morning's gray.
I lean and dream of my weary lot
And wait his coming, and softly cry
For love's great longing, that makes us die-
My heart's best beloved, he dieth not.

Carmen Sylva, Queen of Roumania, in the New Review.