I Before I see another day,
            Oh let my body die away! 
            In sleep I heard the northern gleams;
            The stars, they were among my dreams; [1]
            In rustling conflict through the skies, [2] 5
            I heard, I saw the flashes drive, [3]
            And yet they are upon my eyes,
            And yet I am alive;
            Before I see another day,
            Oh let my body die away! 10

II My fire is dead:  it knew no pain;
            Yet is it dead, and I remain: 
            All stiff with ice the ashes lie;
            And they are dead, and I will die. 
            When I was well, I wished to live, 15
            For clothes, for warmth, for food, and fire
            But they to me no joy can give,
            No pleasure now, and no desire. 
            Then here contented will I lie! 
            Alone, I cannot fear to die. 20

III Alas! ye [4] might have dragged me on
            Another day, a single one! 
            Too soon I yielded to despair;
            Why did ye listen to my prayer? [5]
            When ye [6] were gone my limbs were stronger; 25
            And oh, how grievously I rue,
            That, afterwards, a little longer,
            My friends, I did not follow you! 
            For strong and without pain I lay,
            Dear friends, when ye [7] were gone away. 30

IV My Child! they gave thee to another,
            A woman who was not thy mother. 
            When from my arms my Babe they took,
            On me how strangely did he look! 
            Through his whole body something ran, 35
            A most strange working [8] did I see;
           —­As if he strove to be a man,
            That he might pull the sledge for me: 
            And then he stretched his arms, how wild! 
            Oh mercy! like a helpless child. [9] 40

V My little joy! my little pride! 
            In two days more I must have died. 
            Then do not weep and grieve for me;
            I feel I must have died with thee. 
            O wind, that o’er my head art flying 45
            The way my friends their course did bend,
            I should not feel the pain of dying,
            Could I with thee a message send;
            Too soon, my friends, ye [10] went away;
            For I had many things to say. 50

VI I’ll follow you across the snow;
            Ye [11] travel heavily and slow;
            In spite of all my weary pain
            I’ll look upon your tents again. 
           —­My