By D. H. Lawrence

 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?

 

This poem was originally published in Lawrence’s work Amores in 1916. It is now in the public domain.