Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding star.
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame;
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!
But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serfs shall know
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare,
What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray,