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Poem by David Herbert Lawrence


A Winter's Tale


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 mists white scarf
Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
But shes waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

Why does she come so promptly, when she must know
That shes 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? 



                      David Herbert Lawrence


David Herbert Lawrence's other poems:
  1. Service of all the Dead
  2. Meeting among the Mountains
  3. Discipline
  4. Listening
  5. A Spiritual Woman


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