When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
I see the lovely images, hers, as
She passes… passes… passes by…

Over me grief has thrown its veil:-
Less a creature in this world
And one more angel in the sky.

When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
I think I see the image, hers,
That's not now passing… not passing by…