Читать книгу The Greatest German Classics (Vol. 1-14) - Various - Страница 1181

Were we but only past the hill

There sits my mother upon a stone—

My brain, alas, is cold with dread!—

There sits my mother upon a stone,

And to and fro she shakes her head;

She winks not, she nods not, her head it droops sore;

She slept so long, she waked no more;

She slept, that we might taste of bliss:

Ah I those were happy times, I wis!