Winter―Piece

Ashen and old is the wrinkled earth, Old and gray the sky; The last pale flame of the fire shoots up … The wine is bitter in the cup, The roses, shriveled, — dry, — Bitter and strained is our mirth …

Blackened and ash-strewn, the hearth gapes cold, Shadows haunt the hall. The wind alternately mutters and sighs. The candle-flame flickers — dies … You vowed it, I recall, “Never shall our love grow old!”