The mountains are covered with snow;
Birds crouch deep in the nest;
O where shall my true love go?
Where shall the delicate breast
Be warm in its world of woe?

My house is empty and bare;
Ash lies cold on the hearth.
She walks in the icy air,
Falls on the stony path
And calls in her last despair:

Come to me, warm me, save!
There is not much time: Come soon!
The world is an open grave
And under the riding moon
Your arms are all I have.

But where shall I find her? Where,
As I grope through these winter storms,
Is the house, the hearth, the stair
Where I held my love in my arms
And slept in the folds of her hair?

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