The night is born prematurely,
Becoming one in blistering winds,
The dark crawls,

And the snow falls.

The gallant wings of beauty,
Besieged by winters bellows,
Left to death as the crow calls,

And the snow falls.

The lonesome oaks tremble,
Bare in the white of creeping cold,
Creaking as they are raked by squalls,

And the snow falls.