Beračica cvijeća

The scent of new-mown hay was spreading on the air,the field was green and sweet for any eye to see;upon the meadow sat a woman, young and fair,and picked wild flowers, gathering them on her knee.

The woman sat beside a little mountain brookand wove herself a wreath of flowers of every hue;the joy came pouring out of her in every look,and on her face her happiness was shining through.

And while so happily she dreamed her gentle dreamsand gazed upon the dear one whom her heart adored,a golden glow spilled from the west in rosy streams;she prays in silence: "Let it last for ever, Lord."

That hour, of all her happy hours, was the most blessed,of all the joyful moments that the fair one knew;she nestled close against her dear beloved's breast;she'll keep those memories for ever, dear and true.

But then the wind of fate comes gusting from the hilland scatters all her joy, as tender petals fall;and only from afar a cry comes to me still,and I know I shall never see her more at all.