There is nothing so pure as the beautiful snow.
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow,
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it should be when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting—Freezing—-Dying alone.
Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan,
To be heard in the streets of the crazy town.
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,