Behind the clouds and the tree-tops brown:

The cold road stared with a colder frown

When the poor little feet went wandering down.

Her mother lived up in the shining sky,

Thought poor little baby, wondering why,

As hours and days and weeks went by,

She never came down at her baby's cry.

If the crimson wave in the west led true,

The skyward road she surely knew:

She heeded not that the sharp winds blew,