Striding over the high hills,
She wraps herself in the north wind,
A scarf of snow hugging her neck.

Is it the cold makes her face blue,
Or does her face chill the land?
When she rinses out her old plaid
Whirlpools whip up the foaming sea.
Trees crack in her icy breath,
And birds fall frozen from the branch.

Dark Lady of the dark days;
Who would believe her womb carries
The solstice light of the deep year?