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.