And the snowflakes drifted near and far,
Till the land was whitely fleeced,
And the light-house lamp, a golden star,
Flamed over the waves' white yeast.

In the room at the foot of the light-house
Lay mother and babe asleep,
And little maid Gretchen was by them there,
A resolute watch to keep.

There were only the three on the light-house isle,
But father had trimmed the lamp,
And set it burning a weary while
In the morning's dusk and damp.

"Long before night I'll be back," he said,
And his white sail slipped away;
Away and away to the mainland sped,
But it came not home that day.

The mother stirred on her pillow's space,
And moaned in pain and fear,
Then looked in her little daughter's face
Through the blur of a starting tear.

"Darling," she whispered, "it's piercing cold,
And the tempest is rough and wild;
And you are no laddie strong and bold,
My poor little maiden child.