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A Winterís Tale
A Winterís Tale, by D.H. Lawrence
08-01-2005

 
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        5
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;        10
The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—
Why does she come, when she knows what I have to tell?
 


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