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?