WHITER than feathers of the holy dove,
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
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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!
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