Winter's Tale, A
by: D.H. Lawrence (1885 - 1930)
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?
|
On The Balcony
Bei Hennef
Baby Running Barefoot, A
Love Song, A
Passing Bell, A
Spiritual Woman, A
Baby Asleep After Pain, A
Bride, The
|
