The white hills smoke with snow—
And it is well for you,
Who make so poor a lover,
Who give my hands such little tasks to do;
For, were the doorstep bare,
And the path not drifted over,
My heart would need no cover—
I should go:
Go and never care,
Fling out my arms and run;
Glad in the wakening sun,
Wild in the singing air,
Race with my blowing hair!

But the weight of the winter is on the door,
And the snow has driven me near to you.
It might be well if you’d love me more
And tell me I am dear to you,
Although it is early to understand!
For how is there any knowing
The road I will be going
When a free wind is blowing
Over the opened land?