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 hill’s white verge.
I cannot see her, since the mist’s pale 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
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?