White is the silt
Of snow beneath the door,
Blowing off the moor:
But whiter is the quilt,
Bridal-white the quilt,
Fashioned by the bride
For her bridal bed—
She who looked to wed
At the Eastertide.

White is the silt
Of snow beneath the door,
Blowing off the moor:
And under the white quilt,
Whiter than the quilt,
Fashioned by the bride
For her bridal bed,
Lies a lone lass, dead
Ere the Eastertide.