toward the efficient pursuit of wisdom ...
Old Father Frost had a daughter,
He hid her among the trees,
He hid her away from the meadow
Lest the sun see her beauty and freeze.
Her skin was pale as the snowflakes,
Her eyes as blue as the sky,
Her hair, it sparkled like crystals
Bound with a silver tie.
Deep in the woods he hid her
Where never a sunbeam should stray,
But he reckoned without her own yearning
To be young, and happy, and gay.
Though never a sunbeam she spotted,
The leaves let its song filtre through,
She heard the song of the sunshine
Of laughter and leaves born anew.
Quickly she ran to the meadow
As fast as her feet could go,
She was all the way out in the meadow
Before her steps started to slow.
At the first warm touch of the sunshine,
She uttered a cry of woe,
But by then 'twas already too late:
For alas! she was made of snow.