 | Collected poems of Thomas Hardy |  |
THE SEASONS OF HER YEAR
I
Winter is white on turf and tree,And birds are fled;
But summer songsters pipe to me,
And petals spread,
For what I dreamt of secretly
His lips have said!
II
O 'tis a fine May morn, they say,And blooms have blown;
But wild and wintry is my day,
My song-birds moan;
For he who vowed leaves me to pay
Alone—alone!
| Collected poems of Thomas Hardy | |