all clothed in snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened.
All under the boughs unbowed...
Each feather, it fell from skin
Till threadbare as she grew thin.
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather, it fell from skin.
And I will hang my head,
Hang my head low,
And I will hang my head,
Hang my head low
From The Crane Wife Part 3 by The Decemberists
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