Lxvii

Indoors the fire is kindled; Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone; Cold are the chattering oak-leaves; And the ponds frost-bitten.

Softer than rainfall at twilight, Bringing the fields benediction And the hills quiet and greyness, Are my long thoughts of thee.

How should thy friend fear the seasons? They only perish of winter Whom Love, audacious and tender, Never hath visited.