( Mid-Lent )

The low, gray sky curveth from hill to hill, Silent and all untenanted; From the trees also all glad sound hath fled, Save for the little wind that moaneth still Because it deemeth Earth is surely dead.

For many days no woman hath gone by, Her gold hair knowing, as of old, The wind's caresses and the sun's kind gold; —Perchance even she hath thought it best to die Because all things are sad things to behold.