Like a flower in the frost
Sweet Jenny lies,
With her frail hands calmly crossed,
And close-shut eyes.

Bring a candle, for the room
Is dark and cold,
Antechamber of the tomb—
O grief untold!

Like a snowdrift is her bed,
Dinted the snow,
Faint frozen lines from foot to head,—
She lies below.

Turn from off her shrouded face
The frigid sheet….
Death hath doubled all her grace—
O Jenny, sweet!