The wintry light is gray now,
My hands are very cold,
Yet burn I warm with passion
For her I hope to hold.

She said, “Meet me in day now,
Alone there by the lake,”
And I am warm with passion
For her I hope to take.
. . . . . . . . . .

The sun comes through a little,
The birds are singing, “Yay!”
And I am warm with passion
For her I take away!