Is withered all, and damp, and dark,
While cold above the stars in doubt
Look dull, and scarcely will stay out,
While the snow is heavy on beechen bower
And hides its name-sake, the snow-drop flower,
Why walk forth thus mysteriously!
Dear girl, I ask thee seriously.
Thy cheek is pale, thy locks are wild—
Ah, think, how big thou art with child!—
Tho’ the baron’s red cloak thro’ the land hath no fellow,