And sickens in their searching light,
And woe is hers—alas! alack!
She hates the three times ten so black—
As a mastiff bitch doth bark,
I hear her moaning in the dark!—
’Tis the month of January.
Why lovely maiden, light and airy,
While the moon can scarcely glow,
Thro the plumes of falling snow,
While the moss upon the bark