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A Winter’s Tale


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.

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