She shutters her heart against the cold

Her precious treasures are unsought,

and still she gathers more.

She strokes a solitary harp,

perfecting the notes,

firing the hearth, blessing many

with golden keys opening

many wondrous rooms.  

If one day, a man should come

on quest to make her heart his home,

he'll find the fires warm.

And if no man is wise enough

to seek the treasures in her storehouse,

then romance has expired

and the current male population

consists entirely of fools;

she'll share her riches

with her sisters and children.