She wandered in the snow.
She asked the way of all she met,
But none the way could show.
“It must be farther yet,” she sighed;
“Then farther will I go.”
And still, ’tis said, on Christmas Eve,
When high the drifts are piled,
With staff, with basket on her arm,
Babushka seeks the Child:
At every door her face is seen,—