The pines of valleys soothed by the evening snow,

Together hide the paths away from lonesome village.

The golden reddish apples by the fire glow,

The light is warm and yet another stranger image

Is drawn with chalk of ice across the window glass -

A distant tender face against the freezing windage.

A figure in the darkest street about to pass

Now wanders like a ghost of song, unknown by man.

Her lashes catch the flakes until they feel their mass.

She lives in dreams without a home as no one can,

Known only by the harshest night, by secrets far,

Her look to pierce through the lives much warmer than

Where she appears, where she does not belong, a star

Observing beauty, and a doe, in all we are.