Here you will find the Poem Where does the Winter go? of poet Ethel Turner
There goes the Winter, sulkily slinking Somewhere behind the trees on the hill. He caught a vision of sweet Spring prinking In green before her mirror---the rill. And he turned away With his face quite grey, And he went without ever a glance behind him But I want to know Which way does he go, And does anyone ever try to find him? Is he caught to the sky in a burst of thunder And tucked away in the clouds to sleep? Or does he go down to the sea, I wonder, And fling himself out where the waves roll deep? Is he washed ashore After tossings sore, And found by some fisherman, pale and dying? On some lonely beach Beyond human reach Still and stark is poor Winter lying? Or climbs he up, with his grey head drooping, Yon purple mountain that hides the sun, And stooping and rising, rising and stooping, Digs a grave where never was one? And then lies down In his grey, pale gown A prayer on his lips, and his hands together? "What tears will they shed Because I am dead? They will dance on my grave all the bright Spring weather." Oh! Winter, Winter, my tears are falling, Are you glad of the tears of a little child? Though Spring is abroad and calling, calling, I cling to the edge of your cloak so wild. And I kiss your hand And I understand, And I smooth your proor grey head, low-lying, Ah! I cannot sing Just yet with the Spring While Winter, Winter, is pale and dying.