Than bride's veil, or maid's death-shroud, lies the snow;

But, ah! not whiter than thy snowy brow,

Pauline, my love!

Soft fall they, soft as breezes mild that rove

In May, too soft to wake a sleeping child;

But softer are thy kisses, and more mild,

Pauline, my love!

Cold is the earth, and cold the flakes above,

Cold as the bloodless hands in death that rest;

But colder still the heart within thy breast,

Pauline, my love!