  Over the hill where the white road sweeps, And the dead fern holds the snow, Love flew by, and the black night sky Shadowed the vales below. Down in the creek, where the ice-pools gleam And the trees stand gaunt and bare, I crouched me down, and the sullen frown Of earth entombed me there. "Ah," mocked the ice-pool, hard and clear, "Man with the frozen soul; Love sailed by, on a cloud-bound sky, With the tears that sorrow stole." "Gone," said the fern, "from your frost-bound touch; Gone from your winter's heart. Love flew by, like the tattered sigh Bitterness tore apart." And the aching trees bowed branch and twig And a shrivelled leaf made cry, "If you are cold, and your heart be old, For certain, Love must die." Over the hill, where the white road sweeps, And the dead fern holds the snow, Sweet Love fled; and a spirit dead Spectres the slopes below. |
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