Edward MacDowell - Folksong

Is it the shrewd October wind
Brings the tears into her eyes?
Does it blow so strong that she must fetch
Her breath in sudden sighs?

The sound of his horse’s feet grows faint
The Rider has passed from sight;
The day dies out of the crimson west
And coldly falls the night

She presses her tremulous fingers tight
Against her closèd eyes
And on the lonesome threshold there
She cowers down and cries