The field now matured, with bright golden wheat.
All but a narrow path, of shoulders width,
Made by two lovers, to a glade of birch.
Each day when the sun is no longer high,
She now starts from the east, he from the west,
Would come and these two vines would intertwine.
Both are filled with tempestuous desire,
A hunger their hearts yet to satiate,
There is no want, the roaring fire to squelch.
An island of refuge from any want.
Here they feel so unadulterated,
Ready to fulfill the other’s wishes.
In their bed of myrtle they contemplate,
The test of their love when the ground is white,
Are their feelings but a mere summer love?