A child, scarce older than my Bernard now,
I nestled to the quaint, kind hermit's heart,
And grew to girlhood with my hand in his.
I loved to prank his wretched cell with flowers.
Twisting bright weeds around his crucifix,
Or trailing ivy wreaths about his door.
One winter came when half my father's vines
Were killed with frost; the valley was as white
As yonder boldest mountain-top; the air
Cut like a knife; the brooks were still and stiff;