Snow on the bamboo, sigh and fall,
Snow on the willow, snow on the cherry,
Little Cho San's two breasts are cold;
All the days of her joy are told;
No more is she merry.
Soon they will lay her under the mosses,
Under the pines high over the town.
The temple-bell in hill-mist hangs there,
Ghostly brown,
Snow of the pine-tree shading the bell,
Sigh, softly, and tremble down;
Sound her a knell!

(Little Cho San, do you hear the sound?
Bare are the branches, all around!)