| D.H. Lawrence (1885–1930). Amores. 1916. |
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| 12. A Winter’s Tale |
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| 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. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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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