I’ the glooming light
        Of middle night,
        So cold and white,
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave;
        Beside her are laid,
        Her mattock and spade,
For she hath half delved her own deep grave.
        Alone she is there:
The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose;
        Her shoulders are bare;
Her tears are mixed with the bearded dews.

        Death standeth by;
        She will not die;
        With glazèd eye
She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep;
        Ever alone
        She maketh her moan:
She cannot speak; she can only weep;
        For she will not hope.
The thick snow falls on her flake by flake,
        The dull wave mourns down the slope,
The world will not change, and her heart will not break.