Winter, that is a fireless room 
In a locked house, was our love's home. 
The days turn, and you are not here, 
O changing with the little year! 

Now when the scent of plants half-grown 
Is more the season's than their own 
And neither sun nor wind can stanch 
The gold forsythia's dripping branch, 

Another maiden, still not I, 
Looks from some hill upon some sky, 
And, since she loves you, and she must, 
Puts her young cheek against the dust.