Upon the hard crest of a snowdrift
We tread and, grown quiet, we walk
On towards my house, white, enchanted
Our mood is too tender for talk
Sweeter than song is this dream now
Come true, the low boughs of the firs
Sway as we brush them in passing
The slight silver clink of your spurs
Tenha acesso a benefícios exclusivos no App e no Site
Chega de anúncios
Badges exclusivas
Mais recursos no app do Afinador
Atendimento Prioritário
Aumente seu limite de lista
Ajude a produzir mais conteúdo