The snow is piling higher now
on the garden that was young
when pretty boys they gave me flowers
that I planted, one by one;

But the years flew by like summer birds
bound elsewhere, like the youth I knew -
now there's a pretty flower there
for every pretty boy I knew

when I was young. It doesn't matter now
that all the memories are buried
and none of them remember how
to save me from the one I married.

Winter scratches at the door with frosty fingers.
All the pretty boys are gone - but the snow it lingers.