  The earth is clothed with fog and mist, The shrivelled ferns are white with rime, The trees are fairy-frosted round The portion of enchanted ground Where, in the woods, we lovers kissed Last summer, in the happy time. They say that summer comes again; In winter who believes it true? Can I have faith through days like this— Days with no rose, no sun, no kiss, Faith in the long gold summer when There will be sunshine, flowers and you? Keep faith and me alive, I pray; Feed me with loving letters, dear; Speak of the summer and the sun; Lest, when the winter-time be done, Your summer shall have fled away With me—who had no heart to stay The slow, sick turning of the year. |
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