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?