And smil’d to see the morning light,
For then she cried, “I soon shall meet
“The plighted love of Marguerite.”
Across the waste of printless snow,
All day the nut-brown Girl would go;
And when the winter moon had shed
Its pale beams on the mountain’s head,
She on a broomy pillow lay
Singing the lonely hours away;
While the cold breath of dawnlight flew