She waits in winter’s garden,
Where the roses used to cling,
No blossom on the hawthorn,
No blackbird here to sing.
The gold upon her finger,
Is cold as bitter dawn,
But she’ll wait while dusk light lingers,
And the snow falls on the thorn.
She’ll wait for night to claim her,
When the stars rise in the sky,
She’ll wait though roses perish,
And the lonely blackbird die.