The Frost looked forth one still, clear night,
And whispered, “Now I shall be out of sight;
So, through the valley, and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way. ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
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