It was night and on the mountains
Fathoms deep the snow drifts lay;
Streams and waterfalls and fountains
Down the darkness stole away.
Long ago the hopeless peasant
Left his sheep all buried there,
Sheep that through the summer pleasant
He had watched with fondest care.
Now no more a cheerful ranger,
Following pathways made of yore.
Sad he stood, a wildered stranger,
On his own unbounded moor.

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