I sometimes wish, when apple blooms surround me,
There were no urging voices in the spring,
And when love clings with rapturous arms around me
I sometimes wish there were no reckoning.
Unhand, unhand, all loves that would detain me
The road is clear, though sharp its flinty sting,
Have I not washed your feet unto the parting,
And would you make a servant of a king?
