Upon the gorge, the sleepy plains
The wind twirls like a dizzy top
And dreams of yellow light and white
Come dreaming through the fog.
Upon a snowy fog-lamp day
A man is moving through the hay
As though descending through the gloom
The doom, the doom, the doom, the doom.
A foggy mistress comes to see
Where can her snowy mister be?
She shuts the door, begins to cry
The snowy wind howls her reply.
The forestís clothed in snowy bibs
And bees are buzzing in their sleep
And little children in their cribs
Will weep and weep and weep and weep.