A lad he saw a rose-bush growing,

Rose-bush on the moor,

Young and lovely as the morning,

Quick he ran to see it glowing,

With delight he saw.

Rose-bush, rose-bush, rose-bush red,

Rose-bush on the moor.

Said the lad: I’ll pick your bloom,

Rose-bush on the moor!

Said the rose: ‘Ah, I’ll prick you,

So you will remember true,

I’ll let you do no more.

Rose-bush, rose-bush, rose-bush red,

Rose-bush on the moor.

Then her bloom the cruel lad picked,

The rose-bush on the moor:

To protect herself she pricked,

Cried, sighed, in vain, but quickly

Could defend no more.

Rose-bush, rose-bush, rose-bush red,

Rose-bush on the moor.

— Goethe, The Rose-Bush on the Moor