The Winter is her lover now,
	A brilliant one and bold;
And she has gone away from me,
	Estranged and white and cold.

He painted all the hills for her
	And laughed the skies blue-warm;
He rattled down the pears and plums
	And crashed a happy storm.

The southward swinging lines of birds,
	And chilly rains he sent,
And sharpness in the air to prove
	His serious intent.

And now at last her heart is won.
	She's gone--where did she pass?
For Winter holds his breath and see--
	This frost upon the glass.


 = David Hoak