Sings this song does the Lady in White—
Sings for all of nothing to hear;
She sings to herself this Winter Lullaby,
    Sung with quiet tears—
She sings to herself this Winter Lullaby,
    And listens with saddened ears:

O, joy of heart that cannot breathe,
I sing of you, my one-mistake;
Such tender thoughts should not be—
    That cause my heart to break—
Such tender thoughts should not be,
    Should not be dreams, when I am awake.

The Man in Black stands there mute,
For he has nothing more to say;
There is but one thing I can do—
    I cannot ask him to stay—
There is but one thing I can do,
    And in that we drift away.

Such a sad tune, sing I to the snow—
The song of a bird that cannot fly;—
I spread my wings yet do not let go,
    The memories of a distant time;
I spread my wings yet do not let go
    Of my winter lullaby.

Lullaby sung soft, sung true— too true—
In the silence of the trees;
Though those who hear my song are few,
    It matters most to me;
Though those who hear my song are few,
    They pass on my song of grief.

Bitter-sweet memories fade, pulsing
To the throbbing heartbeat of time’s disdainful wrath;
O’ take to the fires ‘till your body is roasting
    While I lay in the chill of the aftermath;
O’ take to the fires ‘till your body is roasting,
    As I sing of my sorrow past.

Sing I, sing I— this winter lullaby,
Sing I the tale of woe;
I’ll sing this song every day ‘till I die—
    I’ll hold to the earth and not let go,
Screaming my song to the day I die;
    For all I have left is my winter lullaby.