Now all the twigs and grasses

Now all the twigs and grasses
Are feathery with snow;
The land is white and level,
The brooks have ceased to flow.

No song is in the woodland,
There is no light of sun,
But bright and warm and tender
Is my sweetheart, Yvonne.

The lower hills are purple,
The farther peaks are lost;
There's nothing left alive now,
Except the bitter frost.

Yes, two there be that heed not
How cold the year may run:
The fire upon the hearthstone,
And my sweetheart, Yvonne.