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I

WHEN the thorn on the down Quivers naked and cold, And the mid-aged and old Pace the path there to town, In these words dry and drear It seems to them sighing: “O winter is trying To sojourners here!”

II

When it stands fully tressed On a hot summer day, And the ewes there astray Find its shade a sweet rest, By the breath of the breeze It inquires of each farer: “Who would not be sharer Of shadow with these?”

III

But by day or by night, And in winter or summer, Should I be the comer Along that lone height, In its voicing to me Only one speech is spoken: “Here once was nigh broken A heart, and by thee.”