So cold, so cold are her toes;
A wood box, filled with long matches is kept in her hands,
But what do these callous people want with a peasant, such as the girl?
The dark indigo sky engulfs everything, and if it were for the deep snow,
nothing would bear light.

Not one sold, the poor little match girl.
She curls up in an alley, her shoeless feet turn blue.
The frigid snow is warm compared to what awaits her at home,
No money,
Be beat.
Little money,
Be beat.
Not enough money,
Be beat.
This is the way of the fair child's life.

Grabbing her matches, a strike on the cobble wall set them on fire.
So warm,
With heat with hues of orange, red, and gold, makes my sad little match girl blissful.
Memories burn her flushed face,
Warm homey brass stoves,
Christmas dinner with sweet meat and warm appetizers,
Tall deep green trees, with candles of its own, and scarlet ornaments

But, even after her warmth, there is still enough cold for everyone.
A little light shot through the dark sky,
“Another person's dying,” said the only person who loved the poor little girl.
She reached in with her skinny purple fingers for the last match,
Strike,
Gentle, gold hands, lifted little match girl,
Old was the woman, who wept with the small girl.
So happy was the little girl, and so warm was she.
She could feel the warm sun on her skin.
“Take me with you, Granmama?” wept the joyous girl.

Cold sun blemished the frail thing in the alley
An angel must have taken her to warmth
For the small thing left with a smile on New Year's day.