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she have walked a great while over the snow,

And she is not tall nor strong.

her clothes are wet, and her teeth are set,

And the way was hard and long.

she wandered over the fruitful earth,

But never came here before.

Oh, lift me over the threshold,

The cutting wind is a cruel foe;

she dare not stand in the blast.

her hands are stone, and her voice a groan,

And the worst of death is past.

she is a little maiden still;

her little white feet are sore.

Her voice was the voice that women have,

Who plead for their heart's desire.

She came-she came-and the quivering flame

Sank and died in the fire.