A maiden lived on the winter moor In a house built of wood and wire, And late at night she would fill the air With the song of the flute and lyre. The house of levers and joints was made, And its wall was a single screen. It glowed with visions of days gone by, Or of those that had never been. A lonely traveler passing by Caught a glimpse of the dancing light, And heard the voice of the maiden fair As she sang on that cold still night. "Alas!" he cried as he drew his sword, "It is witchcraft whose mark I see. What else could drive this infernal jail? From these bonds I will set her free." So through the cables he cut his way Till the entrance he stood before. The gears and motors stopped one by one, And the wall screen could shine no more. The maiden, pale, came to greet him then. "You have killed me," she softly said. She fell before him on snow-white ground And he knew then that she was dead. A maiden lived on the winter moor In a house built of wood and wire, And late at night a bright flame erupts As the traveler lights her pyre.