The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, <br />And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed <br />Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, <br />And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, <br />Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. <br /> <br />From off your face, into the winds of winter, <br />The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; <br />But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, <br />When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, <br />And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-song-2/
