THE DRAINED CUP [p. lvi]
The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress
Love, should I tell thee summat?
The snow is witherin’ off’n th’ gress
An’ a thick mist sucks at the clots o’ snow,
An’ the moon above in a weddin’ dress
Goes fogged an’ slow—
Love, should I tell thee summat?
Tha’s been snowed up i’ this cottage wi’ me,
Nay, I’m tellin’ thee summat.—