None ever was in love with me but grief.
She wooed my from the day that I was born;
She stole my playthings first, the jealous thief,
And left me there forlorn.
The birds that in my garden would have sung,
She scared away with her unending moan;
She slew my lovers too when I was young,
And left me there alone.
Grief, I have cursed thee often—now at last
To hate thy name I am no longer free;
Caught in thy bony arms and prisoned fast,
I love no love but thee.
I have walked a great while over the snow, And I am not tall nor strong. My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set, And the way was hard and long. I have wandered over the fruitful earth, But I never came here before. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! The cutting wind is a cruel foe. I dare not stand in the blast. My hands are stone, and my voice a groan, And the worst of death is past. I am but a little maiden still, My little white feet are sore. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! Her voice was the voice that women have, Who plead for their heart's desire. She came—she came—and the quivering flame Sunk and died in the fire. It never was lit again on my hearth Since I hurried across the floor, To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.