Yesterday the fields were only grey with scattered snow, <br />And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge; <br />Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go <br />On towards the pines at the hills’ white verge. <br /> <br />I cannot see her, since the mist’s white scarf <br />Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky; <br />But she’s waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half <br />Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh. <br /> <br />Why does she come so promptly, when she must know <br />That she’s only the nearer to the inevitable farewell; <br />The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow— <br />Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?<br /><br />David Herbert Lawrence<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-winter-s-tale-2/
