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Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow,  
And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;  
Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go  
On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.  
  
I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf         
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;  
But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half  
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.  
  
Why does she come so promptly, when she must know  
That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;         
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—  
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?  
  

Submitted by Venus

Added: 16 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:20 PM | Viewed: 6342 times

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