The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, 
And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed 
Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, 
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, 
Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. 
  
From off your face, into the winds of winter, 
The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; 
But they shall gleam again with spiritual glinter, 
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, 
And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.