I am the Earth. The cold has come.
It settles down, and leaves an ache.
O spring, my love, when will you come?
My soil is frozen, now, and numb.
Of you, my love, I would partake.
I need my love; when will you come?
This shape is what we all become.
Locked down, waiting; soon we break.
Heal me, my love; when will you come?
Give me hope, o but a crumb.
I sleep, my love, but would awake.
So long, my love; when will you come?
I live 'neath Winter's frozen thumb.
I hope -- tell me it's no mistake.
I'm cold, my love; when will you come?
