Winter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree....
With my hands I'll dent[119] the briars
Round his holy corse to gre;[120]
Ouph[121] and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.