| O what to me the little room |
| That was brimmed up with prayer and rest; |
| He bade me out into the gloom, |
| And my breast lies upon his breast. |
| O what to me my mother’s care, |
| The house where I was safe and warm; |
| The shadowy blossom of my hair |
| Will hide us from the bitter storm. |
| O hiding hair and dewy eyes, |
| I am no more with life and death, |
| My heart upon his warm heart lies, |
| My breath is mixed into his breath. |