Do not be too pretty, precious coneflower.
Oh, do not bloom completely, lest it will be over.
Don't you hear the wights' approaching footsteps?
Don't you see their eyes jerking from right to left?
If they caught sight of your pristine petals,
Their steady gaze would leave you no more.
So please: don't sway when the winds blow.
Nor let the streaming sunlight make you glow.
If men desired to pluck you from the virgin ground,
And to sniff your pistil while you are bound,
Would you be able to fend for yourself?
Would you be able to flee and ask for help?
So do not be too pretty, precious coneflower.
Do not bloom completely, lest it will be over.
If you were snatched from this gracious ground,
Where else would I land when my flimsy wings tire?
Where else would I go to fill my stomach with nectar?
