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?

DH Lawrence

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s