I do not think that my strength is gone,
Nor fear for my shortening breath;
But the terrible winter is coming on,
And I must not starve to death.
I wish I had died with sister Rose,
Ere hunger and I were mates;
Ere I felt the grip of the thought that grows
The hotter the more it waits.
I am sure that He whom they curse to me,
The Father of all our race,