Out in the Cold.
Under a bough without berries or leaves,
Where the keen winter's slave silver webs weaves,
Where the bleak, bitter blast swoops o'er the hill,
Where the swift-flying flake never is still,
Maidens three,
Here are we,
Surely not old.
Under a bough without berries or leaves,
Where the keen winter's slave silver webs weaves,
Where the bleak, bitter blast swoops o'er the hill,
Where the swift-flying flake never is still,
Maidens three,
Here are we,
Surely not old.