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?