I'm cold and tired and must lie down

in my nurse's dress,

five hundred paces from my town,

the air in snow-distress.

That which makes me bed the ground

I never kissed; the warmth

that has escaped my body

will not be missed, though found

I seem a princess felled by a thorn –

a simple cold spell –

so close to houses where I was born.

If you might rub my blood to burn

all'd be grateful, not to mourn;

as is, I wear a winter crown.