She gathers fast the large duckweed,
From valley stream that southward flows;
And for the pondweed to the pools
Left on the plains by floods she goes.

The plants, when closed her toil, she puts
In baskets round and baskets square.
Then home she hies to cook her spoil,
In pans and tripods ready there.

In sacred chamber this she sets,
Where the light falls down through the wall.
'Tis she, our lord's young reverent wife,
Who manages this service all.