Malade - Бесплатная аудиокнига

A WINTER'S TALE

YESTERDAY the fields were only grey with scattered
        snow,
     And now the longest grass-leaves hardly emerge;
     Yet her deep footsteps mark the snow, and go
     On towards the pines at the hills' white verge.

     I cannot see her, since the mist's white scarf
     Obscures the dark wood and the dull orange sky;
     But she's waiting, I know, impatient and cold, half
     Sobs struggling into her frosty sigh.

     Why does she come so promptly, when she must
        know
     That she's only the nearer to the inevitable farewell;
     The hill is steep, on the snow my steps are slow—
     Why does she come, when she knows what I have to
        tell?