The west-wind croons in the cedar-trees

The west-wind croons in the cedar-trees,

The goldenrod nods by the lea,

And Maud there's love in your bony black eyes;

Can it be meant for me?

The west-wind dies in the cedar-trees,

The goldenrod droops by the lea,

And Maud there's scorn in your merry black eyes

Surely not meant for me?

The east-wind moans in the cedar-trees,

The goldenrod's dead by the lea,

And Maud you may glance with your cruel black eyes.

Winter has come to me.