Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,
And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.
The Storm King has laid his icy clasp
On th’ lock o’ th’ Year:‘ tis an iron hasp.
The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow
Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;
My heart leaps up, for I see a form
That makes the blood in my veins run warm:
A woman is standing beside my bed,
And these are the words, I swear, she said:—