D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). Amores. 1916.

12. A Winter’s Tale

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?