His aim is her heart he aims low,
But mum has said, again and again
Not to climb trees before spring.
And dad as well, has spoken to me
About bushes, though green without leaves.
Head on elbows, through the window
She looks, and she sighs.
The snow is knee deep and he's not around,
In the barn where it's warm.
Doing his chores,
he gathers her yellow honey from bees
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem